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. BURLINGAME
DEC 181961 (ousiic LIBRARY

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BYR USC 'E

— JOURNAL

GrOeU ED

Se previo | Clery Bal A C K MAR

G50: USEsD

EB Dell ORS

JANUARY, 1962

VOL. LXXIX NO.1

NANCY DUGHI

JANE GOODSELL

JOURNALITIES

MINI RHEA

In “Strait Passage’’ (page 34)
NANCY DUGHI, an American girl living
in Morocco, relates the fictional
troubles of Cammie Singer, an
American girl living in Morocco. The
resemblance ends there. Cammie,
bride of a handsome Muslim, can't
adjust to his world of harem and
purdah. Nancy, married to a U. S.
Government employee, speaks
French and Arabic and feels very
much at home in Sidi Slimane,
where the Dughis now live.
SE SE
“| live in Portland, Oregon, with one
husband, three daughters, two gold-
fish and a cocker spaniel,’’ reports
JANE GOODSELL. ‘‘My husband, Jim,
is editor of a weekly newspaper. My
daughters are Ann, Katie and Molly.
Carlotta is the cocker spaniel. The
goldfish are named Frank and
Bradley to give my husband an il-
lusion of male companionship—al-
though, for all we know, they may be
girls too.’’ Her column begins this
month on page 52.

“Once upon a time there was an
Inquiring Camera Girl who fell in
love with a handsome congress-
man,....’’ We all know how that story
ended. MINI RHEA, the Philadelphia
dress designer who was Jacqueline
Kennedy’s dressmaker before her
marriage, tells the little-known be-
ginning of that storybook romance
on page 36. What kind of customer
was the First Lady? ‘‘Ideal,’’ says
Mini Rhea. ‘‘Her fashion sense is
flawless.”

COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY LEOMBRUNO-BODI

OR {'4
2 Woe $

CONDENSED BOOKS COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE

STIRAMPASSAGEMNOVEl) ia. cme rsieemr mel tsetse tees. Sh eiacer cy oe Nancy Dughi 34
THE YOUNG JACQUELINE KENNEDY AS | KNEW HER
Mini Rhea, with Frances Spatz Leighton 36

STORIES

MAE TSI OD IMONSUTERY So ons ee Bodice (6 4 Sotto 6 lee aig Catharine Boyd 38
NEVERSININEW YORK aaa waramsn cts tee iter a) Souiai-ey cucrmene John Latham Toohey 50

ARTICLES

FALSE EDUCATION FOR MANY SLUM CHILDREN? . . Dr. James Bryant Conant 6
HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY: SINK OR SWIM . . Betty Hannah Hoffman 16
MAKINGIMARIRIAGE WORK 4) 55 = 0 = ee eee ce Clifford R. Adams, Ph.D. 28
WHAT DOES YOUNG AMERICA WANT OUT OF LIFE?

SHAPING THE'60's. ..FORESHADOWING THE '70’s. . . (Gallup Survey No. 1) 30

AS CAROL BRECKENRIDGE SEES THE ’60's ae Ree ist wise micas 72
EOVESINFAVNIWTS HE ICI epee bed oo ice) seston) eiistue e! seit) fet set ie vc Jane Goodsell 52
MEEIAIME, DOCTOR gemreace vc) or ckicmca sen rier tas cues Goodrich C. Schauffler, M.D. 90
HANG ONIONS IN YOUR KITCHEN ......... Phyllis Krasilovsky 92
DOIPARENTS TEAGHIPREJUDICE? “sete ak. se se Benjamin Spock, M.D. 98
REVOEUTIONVANDORELIGION «23% ).. 6. eee of Se we ae Dr. Samuel H. Miller 100

HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY

SUNK. OR: SWUM exc! sa) comets, p aeaemmcMetire yas fe cy cece sica) Betty Hannah Hoffman 16
SMA GOO DIC OOK! stems 1 cs eweeweie ta ioiet ies ey lattien ap Sekremedite Margaret Davidson 22
NEW MORKSWORIKIINGIBEAUIIDYGiemns (1 cy seuien or eiireinen (ol lel e meh tes cial ctteiteue Bet Hart 26
ASICAROMBRECKENRIDGES BESHiHIEMGOESivcurt c's) .> sjueltciey clr tells tee's) s/s) (elec 72

QURIKREADERS) WIRIMEVUIS 0 ceieies. cpidete «ol aplte cso tar rc, eo einer dey ive) afer ie) “e) ote 5
PLAYABRIDGE sr n.7(008 em. terataerette Meese, feae et Charles and Peggy Solomon 8
RIETY: VEARS GAG O@ haemo cit iis Mt trrmcmrre cates l wrens sis 15 -5c)oo.- Nl ohselniej to vietuanieh ot toigal es 66
INSKAANYAWOMAIN]: coreta cap tee cite: ucts: eaten omie megeetee. colton rel a) ortekeers Marcelene Cox 69
TEE RELSTAIMANGING Uh EN GOW S Eaecmmemrcntn crs: fsmcnre remit eimeieeeee Harlan Miller 84

UCGOMAMEUIN MOBISIIAIS co gio co oho ae oe oo oo eS Dawn Crowell Ney 10
NEWRORGWORKINGIBEAU II Vatememmecrmctnenictrstcln ol (eure) iis) ftlte (oulsulensenn te Bet Hart 26
JOVURNALEDITORS/AROUND THE|CEOCK I. eo...) ciietsc ce), Nora O’Leary 44
MATING EVAM ESIC iggeeedcctt fier in een aeeween eis Toile tsnue psy oe toate Wilhela Cushman 46
BAGKAGEDIRORGAIGRUNS Es cercmecwecincersuncin cittetatsi Reuirel neltichlonte: eomls Wilhela Cushman 48

NAG OODIGOOK Ymca) oieect) On Ratt. oh tcieuts) Weniales Margaret Davidson 22
EATINGHININEW YORKSISTANFADVMENTIUIREs gst yo oe ccupetielienichasiis Sst jle) os iat tee ve) Be) velo 40
THE WELL-FEDIBRIDEGROOM) Ses = 5 ee ee ee = Margaret Williams 80

INTERIOR DECORATING

PERSONALITY ROOMS INNEWYORK............-.. Cynthia Kellogg 53
USE, IRNOXOLM ISS FAIMNEIRIKCVLOMES) on 6 tuo 5 0 Ob O16 6 oO Ooo og H. T. Williams 56
SMALE D EELGEN Sem ceri ceemed mr eleerinen ieetast ie) <n celle) flute Iwucel .</ teri H. T. Williams 94
POEMS
TEN cee Heroes ee ar ate mt chasm Gaia) Gil seaves Yeyhes’ see) lee woe Harold Witt 69
THE OVERGROWNIMEADOW: . 25 ed. SA ie sl ee ee Dionis Coffin Riggs 75
GIFT IN THE MAIL ete gies navec™ ee eslth a ic . Evelyn Adams 77
AEOUie MEME TOGO ARICS= cwamaiecieetenisereavciis, siisips ol @..e sclare John Ciardi 87
| DREAM DEALT WITH TOYMAKERSIJAEL . 2. 2 2). ts a aes Janice Hays 88

Changing Your Address?
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© 1961 The Curtis Publishing Company in U.S. and Great Britain All rights reserved. Title reg. U.S. Patent Office
and foreign countries. Published monthly. Second-Class postage paid at Phila, Pa., and at additional mailing offices.
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agree, upon request direct from subscribers to the Philadelphia office, to refund the full amount paid for any copies
of Curtis publications not previously mailed. The Curtis Publishing Company, Robert E. MacNeal, President; Mary
Curtis Zimbalist, Sr. Vice Pres.; Cary W. Bok, Sr. Vice Pres Edward C. Von Tress, Sr. Vice Pres. and Director
of Advertising; E. Huber Ulrich, Sr. Vice Pres. and Director of Circulation; Ford F. Robinson, Sr. Vice Pres. and
Manager, Business Department; Brandon Barringer, Treasurer; Robert Gibbon, Secretary; E. Kent Mitchel, Vice Pres
and General Manager of Ladies’ Home Journal; John J. Veronis, Vice Pres. and Advertising Director of Ladies’ Home
Journal. The Company also publishes The Saturday Evening Post, Jack and Jill, Holiday and The American Home.

EXECUTIVE EDITOR:
Mary Bass

MANAGING EDITOR:

Curtiss Anderson

ART DIRECTOR:
Tom Heck

ASSOCIATE EDITORS:

Peter Briggs

William McCleery
Mary Lea Page
Wilhela Cushman
William E. Fink
Louella G. Shouer
Margaret Davidson
Nora O’Leary

Glenn Matthew White
Anne Einselen
Margaret Parton
Geraldine Rhoads
Nancy Crawford Wood
John H. Brenneman
Jean Todd Freeman
Nelle Keys Bell
Betty Coe Spicer
Neal Gilkyson Stuart
H. T. Williams
Cynthia Kellogg

Bet Hart

Berenice Connor

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS:

Richard Pratt

Laura Lou Brookman
Dawn Crowell Ney
Margaret Hickey
Barbara Benson

EDITORIAL ASSOCIATES:

John Werner

Ruth Mary Packard
Ruth Shapley Maithews
Joseph Di Pietro
Elizabeth Goetsch
Joyce Posson

Dorothy Anne Robinson
Liane Waite

Conrad Brown

Anne Fuller

Jim Abel

ASSISTANT EDITORS:

Victoria Harris

Alice Kastberg
Dorothy Markinko
Jean Anderson
Grant Harris

Ann Blackmar

Lee Stowell Cullen
Elaine Ward-Hanna
Carole O’Brien Gaffron
Hazel Owen

Miki Mahoney
Pamela Chamberlain

EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS:

Helen Olchvary
Mary Jane Engel
Kathleen M. Snead
Natalie Schram
Julie Ditchy Crum
Lee Pettee

Bette Holman
Eugenie Thayer
Betty Felton

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OUR
READERS

LETS ABOLISH TEENAGERS!

Dear Editors: The world may be full of

a number of things, but my segment has

become so overcrowded with swarms of

immature beings known as teenagers that
I haven't been able to get a glimpse of
much else. If I pick up a magazine in-
tending to escape from the clamor for an
hour, I often find I have a choice of read-
ing about teenagers or the problems of
the teenagers. Radio broadcasts are mostly
what they teenager prefers to hear; tele-
vision is doing its dead-level best to bring
adults to the teenage point of view.

I, for one, can hardly wait for the
revolution.

El Paso, Texas Berry Pierce

@ fle would abolish indiscriminate use
of the word “teenager.” It might speed up
the revolution.— ED.

HE SAID IT

Dear kditors: Many years ago, Dr.
Woods Hutchison wrote in his column
in the Journal: “There is latent in every
human being a germ of imbecility which
develops and grows when one becomes a
parent.” My agihier used this quotation
to explain any parent’s peculiar behavior.
It should be boxed on every page of ad-
vice printed for women!

Levant, Kansas STELLA Keck

WHAT SAY, A.M.A.?

Dear Editors: Among the top six coun-
tries where infant-mortality rates are
lower than the U.S., I note that three—
Norway, Sweden and England—have
“socialized medicine.” You report that
not one state within tbe. U.S. can match
Sweden’s low rate. Yet the American
Medical Association claims that we will
inevitably lower our standards of medi-
cal care if we adopt any form of social-
ized medicine!

Mrs. PETER F. Crospy
Cazenovia, New York

DR. ADAMS HELPS

Dear Sirs: The articles by Dr. Clifford
Adams (Making Marriage W ork) are great
contributions to the public welfare. |
read them and often find suggestions that
help me counsel quarreling married cou-
ples. I have also known many estranged
from their mates to become recone led
after reading these articles. (I was a
cireuit-court judge for ten years.)

Miami, Florida Ross WILLIAMS

THE DEFENSE RESTS

Dear Editors: Those women who are
competing with men in the business
world know the value of feminine traits;
many a houséwife apparently does not.

She putters around the house in her
nightgown until noon and even goes

shopping with her hair in rollers, poorly
applied makeup and half dressed (usu-
ally wearing tight-fitting pants of some

sort). Fortunately for Ree , slovenly ap-
pearance and laziness are not grounds
for a divorce, The typical suburban ma-
tron has turned into a slob. If you feel
that word is unjustified, I beg you to look
and see for yourselves.

Baldwin, New York Jane T. BeJsovec

@ We dont dare—too busy reading our

mail.— ED,

PEACE CORPS, U.S.A.

Dear kditors: There is a Peace Corps
right here in the United States that could
be a powerhouse. There are 54,000 for-
eign students in our colleges—and half
of them will go back to their native lands
harboring a footie against the United
States. Our own pall oe students are too
busy to pay much attention to them. They
sit off by themselves in classroom, library
and dining room.

eee students are clannish—yes—
clannish like wallflowers at a dance. But
not many of them would turn down
friendship, if it were offered. Visiting
Joe’s home in Springfield or Hackensae k
could be the memorable event in any
foreign student's stay here.

Ann Arbor, Michigan CAROL SPICER
ARE WE IGNORANT OF CANADA?

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gould: Are your
readers aware that Canada is over 800,-
000 square miles larger than the main-
land U.S.? That the
racial groups and ways of living are, in

Canadian climate,

general, the same as those in the U.S.?
That we do not have snow in July? That
over 95 per cent of us have never seen
an Eskimo? That we are, in fact, almost a
“twin” to the U.S.?

We Canadians know about Broadway,
the Rose Bowl, Miami Beach and San
Francisco smog. How many of you know
about Yonge Street, Calgary Stampede,
the ieee Valley, hell Plains of Abra-
ham, or a Chinen?

I plead that the American woman edu-
cate herself and her children about Can-
ada. In years to come, she may need the
strength and courage of her Canadian
sister,

SANDRA ROBERTSON
Queenstown, Alberta, Canada

WHERE’S PAPA?

Dear Editors: Much of the unhappiness
of wives, as well as juvenile delinquency
in homes that supposedly “have every-
thing,”’ is often caused by the absences of
the husband. He is too busy with busi-
ness-related activities. Or, when he is at
home, he’s tired or preoccupied. Can't
business be confined to the hours gen-
erally set aside for business without
jeopardizing a man’s career?

Mercer Island, Washington M.W.

HELP YOUR FIRST-GRADER

Dear Editors: Dr. Spock’s article on
preparing children for school is excellent,
but as a former principal I would add a
few more words for mothers of children
entering first grade. Here are four ways
to = lp ac hild get ready:

Teach him to listen.

; Help him to follow simple directions.

3. See he gets twelve hours of sleep.

|. Teach him to take care of his pos-

Boe Vetma W. Henprickson

Lynbrook, New York

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fe)

Behind the facade of education in many city
schools are crime, frustration and despair.

false
education

for many

sium
children?

BY DR. JAMES BRYANT CONANT

One needs only to visit a slum school in a large city to be convinced
that the nature of the community largely determines what goes on in
the school. The community and the school are inseparable. For exam-
ple, I have walked through school corridors in slum areas and, looking
into classrooms, have seen children asleep with their heads on their
hands. Is this situation the result of poor teachers without either
disciplinary control or teaching ability? No; the children asleep at
their desks have been up all night with no place to sleep or else
have been subjected to incredibly violent family fights and horrors
through the night.

Checking into one case, a principal reported that after climbing six
flights of a tenement he found the boy’s home—one filthy room with a
bed, a light bulb and a sink. In the room lived the boy’s mother and
her four children. The social attitudes found in this kind of slum
neighborhood are bound to affect the atmosphere of the whole. As one
Negro teacher said to me, “‘We do quite well with these children in the
lower grades. Each of us is, for the few hours of the school day, an ac-
ceptable substitute for the mother. But when they reach about ten,
eleven or twelve years of age, we lose them. At that time the ‘street’
takes over. In terms of schoolwork, progress ceases; indeed, many
pupils begin to go backward in their studies.”

It is after visits to schools like these that I grow impatient with
both critics and defenders of public education who ignore the realities
of school situations to engage in fruitless debate about educational
philosophy, purposes, and the like. These situations call for action,
not hairsplitting arguments.

Let me describe a slum that might be in any one of several of the
large Northern cities I have visited. The inhabitants are all Negroes
and many of them have entered the city from a state in the deep South
anytime within the last month to the last three years. Often the com-
position of a school grade in will alter so rapidly that a
teacher will find at th ar that she is teaching few
pupils who started with her in the fall. The principal of one school
told me that a teacher absent more than one week will have difficulty
recognizing her class when she returns.

Mothers move wit]

such an arez

end of a school y

their offspring from one rented room to an-

ve a rans :
other from month to month, and in so doing often go from one ele-
mentary-school district to another. I write “mothers” advisedly, since

19 $Y JAMES BRYANT CONAN THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK

“SLUMS AND SUBURBS,”

ee ee

we a oeeer

in one neighborhood, by no means the worst I have seen, a question-
naire sent out by the school authorities indicated that about a third of
the pupils came from family units (one hesitates to use the word
‘“‘homes’’) which had no father, stepfather or male guardian.

The condition in one such neighborhood was summed up by a
principal of a junior-high school who said even he was shocked by the
answers to a questionnaire to the girls which asked what was their
biggest problem. The majority replied to the effect that their biggest
problem was getting from the street into their apartment without be-
ing molested in the hallway.

The women, on the whole, work and earn fairly good wages, but
the male Negro often earns less than the woman and would rather
not work at all than to be in this situation. As a consequence, the
streets are full of unemployed men who hang around and prey on the
girls. The women are the centers of the family and as a rule are ex-
tremely loyal to the children. The men, on the other hand, are floaters,
and many children have no idea who their father 1s.

One often hears privately even in the North that it has been clearly
established that a colored student on the average is inherently inferior
to a white student. No such premise has been clearly established, and
in my view the difficulties in obtaining evidence that would clearly es-
tablish or, for that matter, clearly negate such a position are virtually
insurmountable. However, it has been established beyond any reason-
able doubt that community and family background play a large role in
determining scholastic aptitude and school achievement.

Let us examine the situation in an all-white slum in a city of consid-
erable size. Perhaps the greatest handicap to good schoolwork is the
high mobility of the population in the neighborhood. It 1s not uncom-
mon in such a school to have a turnover of the entire enrollment in
one school year. A careful study of a group of fourth-graders of one
such school showed that their average achievement level wasa full year
below their grade placement—a typical situation in any slum area.

What the teachers in this school have to contend with is shown by
a report from the principal, who writes:

‘“‘Absentee owners rent property by single rooms or small so-called
apartments of two or three rooms to large families. .. . Such conditions
attract transients (who either cannot or will not qualify for super-
vised low-income housing), the unemployed, the unskilled and un-
schooled, and the distressed families whose CONTINUED ON PAGE 62

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466. RUS-

SIA AND
THE WEST UN-
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AND STALIN
by GEORGE F.
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499. A
MATTER OF
LIFE AND DEATH

PETERSON. (Re-
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484.12
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by THOMAS B,
COSTAIN. (Ret.
price $7.50)

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(a THE
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| BOOK-OF-THE-MONTH CLUB, Inc. Alé61
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WHO'D
MISS
ONE

BITSY

SLICE?

©SWIFT & COMPANY, 1962

Bacon-Snitchers are sweet on
phe brown-sugar cured flavor
yf Swift’s Premium Bacon!

~S... every lean, crisp slice is loaded with Meat: power (real energy and
omplete, high quality meat protein). For extra value, extra goodness
hop at the food stores that proudly feature Swift’s Premium Bacon.

The two most trusted words
in meat. Our 107th Year

BRIDGE

By CHARLES AND PEGGY
SOLOMON
WORLD'S LEADING
HUSBAND-AND-WIFE TEAM

NORTH

@K Q6

9952

055

&®AKS2
WEST EAST
@AI812 @ 10953
v1 ¥ 73
@7632 @ 10984
& 1065 913

SOUTH

¥F¥AKQIIO86

@Ak

hOIT
North-South vulnerable
West dealer
The biddirtg:
WEST NORTH EAST SOUTH
Pass | Pass 29
Pass QIN Ds Pass 39
Pass Ly Pass 7
Double Pass Pass UieIN ily.
Double — Pass Pass Redouble
Pass Pass Pass

East opens the @ 10

It is estimated that in all expert
games, only one slam out of twenty-
five which have been reached volun-
tarily on constructive bidding will be
doubled by the opposition. Now this
is not to say that anything like
twenty-four out of twenty-five bonus
assignments are actually fulfilled. It
is doubtful that any team in the
world has a batting average of better
than 80 per cent on its slam ventures.
We're quite satisfied if six out of ten
of our “big ones”? come in.

It is a very rare thing, however, for
two first-class partners to go down
more than one trick on slam bids (not
counting freaks, of course, where the
initial lead can be ruffed). Hence de-
fenders properly refrain from crack-
ing these premium commitments, on
the theory that the percentages are
decidedly against such drastic ac-
tion. Aside from other vital consider-
ations, the double often gives away
valuable information. Even appar-
ently sure trump winners have been
known to vanish when subjected toa
masterful attack. Here the fellow who
do abled seven hearts, and then seven
no trump, was a high-ranking player.
Yet on this particular hand he looked
worse than a beginner. To add to his
chagrin, at least fifty kibitzers wit-
nessed the fiasco.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL.

South’s bidding pyrotechnics were
both very good and very bad. It is
possible (we don’t know) that he and
his partner were not employing an
ace-locating convention. If so, he
didn’t have this means of determin-
ing whether North’s original call in-
cluded two aces. Obviously, a four-
no-trump bid on the third round (in-
stead of the wild plunge to seven
hearts) would have told South that
an ace was missing. Then he could
have contented himself with a juicy
small slam in the major. It must be
admitted that with West’s invaluable
assistance and East’s blind flying,
South made a far greater killing. In-
deed, this was one of the greatest
steals since the Brink’s robbery, and
it didn’t require a bit of early plan-
ning.

When South heard the totally un-
expected double of seven hearts, it
didn’t take him a moment to recover
from the shock. He was certain that
his left-hand adversary held an ace.
He could not possibly hold a trump
trick (bear in mind that North had
raised to four hearts). Once that was
decided, it was a routine matter for
South to get the ace holder off the
lead by returning to no trump, first
mentioned by North. This switch
saddled East with the lead and put
her to a terrible guess.

Though it is true that North’s club
bid reduced the guess to no more than
a fifty-fifty chance between unbid
spades and diamonds, this surely was
a great deal better than virtually con-
ceding defeat by allowing West to
open that ace under his thumb.

South’s redouble might be termed
dubious, but it actually was sound
according to the percentages. He re-
alized that his partner might have
opened a bit light, but also knew that
North never “‘psyched.”’ He probably
held the spade king, in addition to
the ace and king of clubs. Therefore
the contract did not figure to go down
more than one trick—an additional
200 points—whereas if East guessed
wrong at trick one, there was an ex-
cellent chance of making the 440 ex-
tra points that would accrue to seven
no trump redoubled, instead of merely
doubled.

West’s double was ghastly. It met
the fate it so richly deserved. Poor
East pondered and fretted and then
studied some more. Completely in
the dark, she finally led the ten of
diamonds, top of her sequence. With
that, the lights went out!

Perhaps it can be argued that the
spade suit should have been led. It is
interesting to report, however, that
one of the topflight woman bridge
players in the country failed to come
up with the right answer. The hand
was a crucial one played in a national
championship. For obvious reasons,
the names of the participants cannot
be revealed.

The Solomon System of point count
for honor cards is: ace, 4; king, 3;
queen, 2; jack, 1; two tens, 1. Asingle-
ton king, 2; a singleton queen, 1. (Do
not count tens in an original no-trump
or for evaluating a slam.) Generally,
a holding of 13 points is required for
an opening bid.

;

JANUARY, 1962

Choose from the 72 Big Hit Albums and Great Recording Stars shown here...

321. JACKIE GLEASON. MU-
SIC, MARTINIS AND MEM-
ORIES in the lush Gleason
manner: Once In A While,
1 Remember You, | Can’t
Get Started, 9 more.

202. THE KENTON TOUCH:
STAN KENTON. Twelve
stirring themes by Stan
and his ablest abettor,
Pete Rugulo: Minor Riff,
The End Of The World.

RED NICHOLS
Ete shcoeec i d
i Vee os
a i

: dance

179. RED NICHOLS. ‘Red’
and the Five Pennies serve
a musical menu a la Dixie-
land. Hear Jo-Do, Sep-
tember Song, Ballin’ the
Jack—11 others.

195. SWINGIN’ DECADE.
Glen Gray, his Casa
Lomans recreate the
swingin’ sounds of Tommy
Dorsey, Benny Goodman,

227. HARRY JAMES blows,
and the Music Makers fol-
low in big band style.
Blues For Sale, You’re My
Thrill, Just For Fun, Wil-
low Weep For Me, more.

133. LES BROWN: DANCE
.TO SOUTH PACIFIC.
Broadway’s greatest show
hits—styled for dancing.
Bali Ha‘i, Some Enchanted
Evening, lots more!

257. SATURDAY NIGHT...
POLKA! Ray Budzilek re-
corded in person. Ice
Cubes And Beer, Spring-
time Polka, Cleveland
Mazurka, 9 more.

‘ a

' GUY LOMBA
The Sweetest’) fiteees
Ths Site of Heaven

192. GUY LOMBARDO. The
master of melody plays
beloved favorites in three-
quarter time: Beautiful
Ohio, Alice Blue Gown,
10 other waltzes.

KINGSTON TRIO\

348. PEGGY LEE. OLE ALA
LEE. Sultry swinging Latin
singing. Olé! Just Squeeze
Me, Fantastico, Love And
Marriage, 8 more.

JACKIE
GLEASON

316. JACKIE GLEASON.
LAZY, LIVELY LOVE. Be-
couse Of You, On The
Street Where You Live,
Speak Low, It Had To Be
You, 8 more.

355. GEORGE SHEARING.
THE SHEARING TOUCH.
Superb stylings of Nola,
Misty, Bewitched, 8 more.
All with Billy May strings

115, SOUNDS OF THE GREAT
BANDS. Glen Gray and his
Casa Lomans recreate the
sound of Gene Krupa,
Tommy Dorsey, Glenn
Miller, others

PAUL WESTON

MUSIC

142. PAUL WESTON. A new
album of “Music for
Dreaming’. Hear Laura,
Out of Nowhere, My Blue
Heaven, nine other fav-
orites.

344, PEE WEE HUNT'S
DANCE PARTY. Have a reol
ball! Hear Oh!, Moonglow,
It Had To Be You, Bill Bai
ley, 8 more Hunt hits

A Worried Man, 9 more

189. FOUR FRESHMEN AND 327.
FIVE GUITARS. ‘Way out— SEEMS LIKE OLD TIMES.
but good! Imaginative 22 sentimental favorites,
stylings of The More | See including Diane, Johnson
You, It All Depends On Rag, Whispering, Char
You, Nancy, 9 more Paradise

346. DON BAKER. SOPHIS- 225. GLEN GRAY. SOLO
TICATED PIPES. Thrilling SPOTLIGHT. Memorable
organ arrangements of 8 Casa Loma Stylings of
top hits: Slaughter On Golden Earrings, Blue
Tenth Avenue, Veradero, Star, When | Fall In Love,
more. (Stereo Only) 9 more favorites.

STRINGS BY 74. KEELY SMITH. | WISH

STARLIGHT YOU LOVE. Keely gives

out with Fools Rush In,
FELIX SLATKIN Mr. Wonderful, You Go
uf <<

FREDDY MARTIN.

maine,

To My Head, When Day
Is Done. 7 more

wom ais
MARCHING &
BAND! Ses

134. Hollywood Bowl String

ENSEMBLE. Felix Slatkin
conducts ‘Strings by Star-
light’. . . works by Tchai-
kovsky, Bach, Grainger,
Borodin, others.

173. SABRE DANCE. The 165. MEREDITH WILLSON'S
Hollywood Bow! Sym- MARCHING BAND. Here are
phony under Newman 16 rousing and thrilling
plays exciting dance marches, including 6
suites by Khachaturian great original marches by
and Kabalevsky John Philip Sousa

199. KINGSTON TRIO. HERE 138. | GET A KICK OUT OF
WE GO AGAIN. Guitars, PORTER. Joe Bushkin plays
banjos and bongos going Cole Porter classics: Begin
like crazy. Haul Away, The Beguine, Night And
Molly Dee, Goober Peas, Day, Let's Do It, 9 more

295. ANNA MARIA ALBER-
GHETTI. WARM AND
WILLING. Hear: Non Di-
menticar, Porgy, Anema

E Core, Cuban Love Song,
Sorrento, 5 more

12 Latin favorites get
special spice by Laurindo
Almeida’s guitar. Luna De
Miel, Pica Pau, Club Ca-
ballero and others.

2‘ LONG PLAY HI-FI

TakeDa

333, FOUR PREPS ON CAM.
PUS. A real hot best-seller!
Heart and Soul, Swing
Down Chariot, Tom Dooley,
16 morel Recorded LIVE!

373. THE SWINGIN'S MU-
TUAL. George Shearing
Quintet plays—Nancy
Wilson sings: Blue Lou,

Inspiration, 10 more!

212. SOLD OUT: The King-
ston Trio in a superb
vocalisation of Carrier
Pigeon, Bimini, Don’t Cry
Katie, plus 9 more selec
tions.

340. WANDA JACKSON.
THERE'S A PARTY GOIN’
ON, and you're invited!
Lost Week-End, Man We
Had A Party, Bye Bye Baby,
9 more

108. FRANK SINATRA.
ONLY THE LONELY. Ebb
Tide, Spring Is Here,
Goodbye, What's New,
Blues In The Night, 7 more
great hits

TD
aT 3

a aL SLL

1. GERSHWIN. His most
famous works—Rhapsody
in Blue and An American
in Paris. Leonard Pennario
with the Hollywood Bowl
Symphony

127. JOE “FINGERS” CARR
AND HIS SWINGIN’ STRING
BAND. A cheerful nosegay
of tunes: Harbor Lights,
Vanessa, 10 more

ERNIE

sings inspiring hymns with

105. TENNESSEE

beauty and reverence:
Now the Day is Over,
Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me,
ten other favorites

Nat King Cole
eed eg

260. NAT KING COLE. BAL-
LADS OF THE DAY. The
King sings 12 big all-time
hits! Angel Eyes, Return
To Paradise, 10 more.
(Monaural Only)

194. DAKOTA STATON.
MORE THAN THE MOST.
Here's ‘blues’ dressed up
in style! Love Walked In,
It's You Or No One, 10
more torrid numbers.

|THE LES BROWR STORY

poe "%

ill RB &S
345. THE LES BROWN
STORY in songs from 1939
to today — Leapfrog, Ro
mona, Mexican Hat Dance,
Lover’s Leap, 8 more

251. VIENNESE WALTZES.
Franck Pourcel conducting
Emperor Woltz; Artist's
Life, Wine, Women And
Song, Tales of Vienna
Woods, 6 more.

217. THE SONG IS JUNE.

June Christy sings ten of
her greatest hits includ-
ing The Song Is You, The
One ! Love Belongs
Somebody Else, others

241. TEX RITTER. BLOOD
ON THE SADDLE. Bury Me
Not On The Lone Prairie,
Billy The Kid, Streets of
Laredo sung by the favor-
ite of the West.

166. FRED WARING. DO
YOU REMEMBER? The
Pennsylvanians take you
down memory lane with
Remember, Stardust, For
Me And My Gal, more.

[WEBLEY EDWARDS

einai — i

146. FIRE GODDESS.
Webley Edwards plays
Hawaiian chants and
songs. Exotic music and
exciting sounds from au-
thentic Island instruments

326. LEOPOLD STOKOWSKI
leads the London Sym-
phony in Ravel’s Rhapso-
die Espagnole; Debussy’s
Nocturnes. “Impressive,
Dazzling...”

265. BELLS ARE RINGING.
Dean Martin, Judy Holli-
day. Movie soundtrack.
The Party’s Over, Do It
Yourself, Just In Time, 9
more hits.

RAY ANTHONY
DANCING
OvVER®
THE
WAVES

139. DANCING OVER THE
WAVES. Ray Anthony and
orchestra at their dance-
able best. They play
Dancing Over the Waves,
Intermezzo, 10 others

347. LES BAXTER'S WILD
GUITARS. Exciting, unusual
sound! Sabre Dance, Tico
Tico, Desilusao, Brazilian
Slave Song, 8 more.

169. SAM BUTERA. THE
BIG HORN. His sax and
The Witnesses meet old
favorites head on in Hey
There, La Vie En Rose,
Too Young, other hits

SMASH HIT!
CURRENTLY TOP OF ,
THE CHARTS —

324A & 324B. JUDY oii
AT CARNEGIE HALL—
Judy Garland. The iy
greatest evening in
show business
history is yours
in this 2-record
album of 26
exciting songs.
Recorded

LIVE at
Carnegie Hall!

FRED WARING
AND THE
PENNSYLVANIANS

the time,
the place,
the girl ,

198.
you ve the time, the place,
the girl—Fred’s magic with

FRED WARING. If

chorus, orchestra make
your dreams come true
12 “greats

RODGERS ano
HAMMERSTEIN'S

CAROUSEL

102. CAROUSEL. Movie
sound track, with Gordon
MacRae and Shirley Jones
They sing If | Loved You,
Mister Snow, You'll Never
Walk Alone,*others

103. JONAH JONES. JUMP-
IN’ WITH JONAH in a
swingin’ new set of tunes:
Just A Gigolo, A Kiss to
Build a Dream On, ten
others

220. BAKERS DOZEN. Don
Baker at the organ in 13
tasty pastries, including
Granada, Two Guitars,

Willow Weep For Me,
Riders In The Sky.

352. DAKOTA STATON. DA-
KOTA! Her greatest album
yet: If | Love Again, Pick
Yourself Up, 10 other fab
ulous song stylings

359. DICK SINCLAIR.
POLKA PARADE. Straight
from TV’s happiest show
Jolly Coppersmith, In The
Alps, Sugartime, 12 more

188. KAY STARR. Kay
swings through a dozen
great songs: Night Train,

Lozy River, Sentimental
Journey, Slow Boat to
China, etc.

The Joy
of Living

135. NELSON RIDDLE. Zest-
ful songs about the joys
of living and loving: Isn‘t

It A Lovely Day, You Make
Me Feel So Young, 10
others

144. SLEEP WARM. DEAN
MARTIN. Dean sings and
Frank Sinatra conducts
the orchestra in ‘’sleepy”’
tunes: Sleepy Time Gal,
11 more.

2 Record Set—Counts As 2 Selections

Record Club and

SE ROY PPE”
wos Deer-drinking music

jon
CH JAEGER

297. BAND OF THE IRISH
GUARDS in stirring rendi-
tions of Trumpets Wild,
Ouvre Ton Coeur, Thun-
der And Lightning Polka,
other concert pieces

when you become a Trial Member of the Capitol

328. COME TO THE FAIR.
Tennessee Ernie Ford re-
corded LIVE at the Indiana
State Fair. Sixteen Tons,
Your Cheatin’ Heart, Bill
Bailey, 8 more.

JUNE CHRISTY

356. GERMAN BEER-DRINK-
ING MUSIC. A foaming
stein full of Walter
Schacht’s brass band,
groups and soloists in 12
numbers, (Monaural Only)

342. JUDY! THAT'S ENTER-
TAINMENT. Judy Garland
sings: If | Love Again,
Old Devil Moon, Alone
Together, Who Cares?,
Yes, 6 more ‘greats’

plus a small charge
for shipping services

agree to buy as few as six fu-

ture record selections during the next 12 months

KING
COLE;

190. JUNE CHRISTY. June’s
greatest hits from her
days with Stan Kenton:
How High The Moon,
Come Rain Or Come
Shine, 9 others.

226. BOBBY HACKETT. EASY
BEAT. Bobby’s horn blows
easy listening. Take The
4 Embraceable

197. PHIL NAPOLEON. His
Memphis Five in a dozen
“ted hot’’ Dixieland Spe

fer

‘A Train, cials: Creole Rag, A
You, ‘Tis Autumn, Mr. You‘'ve Gone, Wang Wang
Blues. etc

185. LOVE IS THE THING.
Nat King Cole spins 12
love songs smoother than
silk. It's All In The Game,
At Last, Love Letters,
more of your favorites

149. DINAH, YES INDEED!
Dinah Shore sings golden
melodies. Falling In Love
With Love, Where Or
When, Love Is Here To

351. THE GREAT JIMMIE
LUNCEFORD. Authentic re
creations by BILLY MAY:
Charmaine, Ain‘t She
Sweet, For Dancers Only, &
more swingtime favorites.

Stay, Yes Indeed, 8 more

370. JEANNE BLACK. A
LITTLE BIT LONELY. Her
debut album, with big
hits: Lisa, He'll Have To
Stay, and 10 more

5 ‘
191. DINAH SHORE. SOME-
BODY LOVES ME. Dinah‘s
appealing in this album
arranged and conducted
by Andre Previn. Remem-
ber, All Alone, 10 more.

236. TOMMY SANDS. Love
songs never sounded so
inviting as Tommy cares-

ses I’m Confessin’, My
Hoppiness, That Old Feel-
ing, 9 more.

152. FRANK SINATRA.
COME DANCE WITH ME.
1960 winner of 3 awards:
Album of Year, Best Male
Vocalist Performance,
Best Arrangements!

231. FREDDY MARTIN with
medieys of 39 greatest
dance hits in the Martin
Manner. Includes Love
Walked In, Honey Bun,
Rosalie, | Love You.

IAPS OANA RAAT

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Bill me only 97¢ plus a small charge for
shipping services.

Please accept my application for trial
membership in the Capitol Record
Club. As a member I agree to buy six
additional records during the next
twelve months, from over 200 to be
offered! For the records I buy, I'll pay
the Club price of $3.98 or $4.98 (occa-
sionally $5.98) depending on record
purchased, plus a small charge for
shipping services 7 days after I receive
each album.

You'll send me FREE each month
the illustrated Capitol Record Club
Review which pictures and describes
the monthly selections and alternate
selections. I will enroll in one of the
three Divisions of the Club listed be-

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low, and whenever I want the monthly

selection of my division I need do
nothing; it will be sent to me auto-
matically. But if I wish any of the

other selections—or wish no record at
all that month—I'll notify the Club on
the form always provided. I'll purchase
at least one record every two months

BONUS ALBUMS will be given to
me at the rate of one 12-inch album
for each that I buy, after

two my »
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select my own BONUSES from an ba

up-to-date list of current Capitol best
sellers.
I may cancel membership any time

{ CHECK THE DIVISION IN WHICH YOU WISH TO BE ENROLLED
1. () Best Seller Hit Albums (Dancing, Listening, Mood
{ Music and Show Albums from Theatre, Screen and TV) 3.

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<
Edn ae ea eee cael

after buying six additional records

WrawrOwC
ewes sy es ee ee ee ee ee eee ee ee ee

2. 1 Classical Albums
() Hi-Fi Jazz

I will return these 5 ALBUMS within
cancelled without further obligation.

chosen above will be sent to you in
STEREO with a bill for $1.00 more
($1.97). Bonus Albums and future selec-
tions will also be in STEREO. NOTE
Stereo records can be played only on
stereo equipment.

ZONE rs: aie ope STATE
bill. (Only one membership per household.) |

LHJ-1

ATM Ano ononoAnoionioAniaAnononononononmonomonononionomonaus |

fiita Hornak, of Granger, Texas, thought she weighed “only” 250 pounds. But her doctor’s scales said 300!

By DAWN CROWELL NEY seauty epiror

Here 1s twents -year-old Rita’s story as she
tole i u US;

I was ten years old when I discovered that
nobody—but nobody—can resist razzing a fat
girl. Even the priest who had married my par-
ents had his comment to make when later he
saw me for the first time. ‘‘Why, look at her,”
he declared in amiable amazement, ‘“‘she’s built
like a battleship!’’ I can’t remember exactly
what I weighed at that age, but it was enough
to cause my school-desk chair to crack beneath
me. I sat all day, hoping the moment would
never come when I would have to tell my
teacher.

I was the target for all the “‘fatty-fatty-
two-by-four’’ rhymes ever invented. My nick-
name was Baby Blimp. The other kids used to
imitate my waddling walk. When my older
sister was nervously preparing to introduce the
family to her first serious beau, I overheard her
remark to mother, ‘“‘Can’t we hide Rita some-
place?”’

I was too fat to be athletic in school, and
since I was not required to be active in gym, I
sat on the sidelines. One day, though, our
eighth grade had a picnic which included row-
boat rides for groups of four students per boat.
It looked like such fun, I decided to go along
too. When I got into a boat, a teacher told me
apologetically but firmly to get out, explaining
that I threw. the boat dangerously off balance.
So out I climbed and, in tears, watched the
others row off.

In high school I was occasionally invited to
take an automobile drive with friends. How-
ever, any notion that I was one of the crowd
was promptly squelched by such remarks as,
“Rita, you sit up front so the bumper won’t
drag’’—or, if I sat in back, someone would
giggle, “Isn’t the car rear dragging?”

Mother’s attitude about food confused me.
“Tf you don’t eat you’ll get sick,’ she would
admonish, heaping extra helpings on my plate.
And, on the other hand, she’d often scold:
“Rita, you must try to slim down.”

[ did try to diet during my early teens, but J
became so discouraged when I didn’t turn from
ugly duckling into swan overnight, I’d give up.
As luck would have it, my two sisters could eat
all they wanted and stay slim. My brother got
fat, but the Air Force straightened him out by
insisting that he lose 50 pounds as soon as he
joined. I just kept gaining and gaining.

The refrigerator wa y home within a home.

1en I was teased or scolded, I went to the
refrigerator. When CONTINUED ON PACE 82

BEF AND AFTER MEASUR

B
N

on WwW
Ww

6" j ry

24, pattern D 7e 14
(expanded)

LEOMBRUNO-BODI

Today, at 150 pounds, Rita gets a secret thrill from wolf whistles, delights in her new clothes, her interesting job

Ge ai
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VICTOR <A
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“WR Ry ye BUG
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PET TT)

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ek
TT
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NOTE: Stereo records must be played only on a stereo record player.
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More than 1,250,000 families now enjoy the music program of
COLUMBIA RECORD CLUB, Terre Haute, Ind.

a SR), we POE eee ee

Le
eC ley

" Stranger
} me

y y 10 more
RM by

3. Also: Moonlight
Becomes You, More
Oe Oh, aed om

| Also: I’m in the
aR
ie UCC

THE PLATTERS

Twilight Time

My Prayer g
Only You
9 more

¥9

)3. ‘*Glowingly 1. Also: Great Pre-
autiful, full of tender, Enchanted,
Eat CD ed om

lor'’—N.Y. Times

LERNER & LOEWE

Camelot

Orchestra’.

PTT
» DON ry re and Original Me

y Broadway
: Cast

8. Don't Blame Me,
jore Than You Know,
or You, 12 in all

PK PaO aL
beautiful musical, a
triumph''—Kilgallen

awe GUNS TO TOWN
RUN SOFTLY, BLUE RIVER
PLUS 10 OTHERS
0. Clementine, My 69. Also: One More
MC ae Ride, | Still Miss

SUC eed Oe

3 rink to Me, 9 more

and chorus

ANTAL DORATI
USS Ou Dac LC

COLUMBIA

Pete Ch PL MU ee
ees aC le a SL
er eee at nade, 12 in all

Nap ey: ¥et-y to) 1 TCHAIKOVSKY
ha fi PATHETIQUE SYMPHONY
— Philadelphia Orch. _ ("®-6)
_ ORMANDY

NDRE KOSTELANETZ

OMNMLy ed his Orch

COLUMBIA

Pn Ed aes ee
suitars, Hora Stac-
ato, 14 in all

COLUMBIA

121. The symphony is
mC TRC Mir) cli
Se uma tins |

FOLK SONGS and
DRINKING SONGS
from GERMANY

63. Also: Tony Ben-
nett — Smile; Vic
Damone — Gigi; etc.

ROY HAMILTON

90. Lighthearted
Th 4 ae a LL
utterly delightful

FENNELL

GR
aly

27. Never Let Me Go, te
4a a eh
By the Riverside, etc.

“The recording
Ul ae tte 1)
ite (t ae Te le

[CcoLuMBia]}

76. Fire Ball Mail,
John Henry, Reuben,
Ue ed

106. “Superbly play-
ed, exciting’’—Amer.
Record Guide

his orchestra

98. ‘‘Extraordinarily
TET ee ea
silvery”’—N.Y. Times

ure
PLATTERS

pS Maid

2. Also: Somebody
Loves Me, Thanks for
RUT] tae Cam

PERCY [jf
FAITH f
STRINGS

Tenderly 4 4

Laura | Fay.

Speak Low

plus 9 more

F
21. Also: Song from

Moulin Rouge, Ebb
tC Coan

Rhapsody in Blue
An American in Paris

COLUMBIA

95. ‘Fierce impact
and momentum” —
N.Y. World-Telegram

yi
You Under My Skin,
OD ae oe

I've Got

GOLDEN VIBES
St

with reeds and rhythm

COLUMBIA

hPa
Your Eyes, My Fun-
ny Valentine, 10 more

Ps i ee
Ce Cae ere
is the Hour, 9 more

60. “Best new com-
CTE me er aa
—Playboy Magazine

XAVIER
CUGAT

and his
Orch.

aaa sid ee sy

34. Siboney, Perfi-
dia, Jungle Concer-
to, Poinciana, etc.

8. Also: Singin’ in
the Rain, Hello! My
FE ho

57. ‘‘Champion
EPS Dh a
CU Cait a Cle

Begin the Beguine
Where or When

22. Also: I've Told
Every Little Star,
Black Magic, etc.

Pee ee
Pec
Song is Ended, etc.

GREENFIELOS
EDOYSTONE LIGHT + YELLOW BiRD

plus 9 more

19. “Lighthearted,
winning informality”
—HIiFi Stereo Review

CT Gem atte
musical painting is
an American classic

Oe Ca ur
Ee CU le
CSUR tule

ee cm

DEPTH

AN INTRODUCTION
TO COLUMBIA
STEREOPHONIC SOUND

51. Includes stereo
balancing test and
book — STEREO only

UCM hl Mh
Se eee Ld

al are

gaol a ;

Pee eee Ne
OP LT ak am ot)
Teh le ee 1

82. I'll Never Stop
Ty ae A ed a
RC Ae me

Hie me
a)

PCR oes
Cee

jerry Murad’s
rh tere

CPE ae
CC ae)
ETT ir eae a

THE TWO OF US

Pee eee eg
it eae MLC
Pee ee ed

RACHMANINOFF:
PIANO CONCERTO No. 2

ENTREMONT - BERNSTEIN -

W.Y. Philharmonic

99. “A performance
of manly eloquence”
Sm em ey

24. Also: Rawhide,
Wanted Man, The
3:10 to Yuma, etc.

= zd

SRE ee eur) mm
wrought a small mir-
FT ae hl

THE MAGIC OF

33. Also: Love is a
Random Thing, Are
You Certain, etc.

NTT te a

Te
ae

OY
LCR CRE)

plus 10 more

<M Ut 1)
Love, Like Love, |
SE eed

COLUMBIA

ee Pica
ALL aL OT

USL

se at

Valse Triste -
Si hapsody -
Ba ae Ca ee

102. ‘‘Electrifying
performance...over-
whelming’’-HiFi Rev.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC
THE LORD'S PRAYER-9 more
CRRA ri yi (l ag

ry Air, Blessed Are
They That Mourn. etc.

HARMONICATS

Peg O' My Heart

Deep Purple
Tenderty
—10 More

[covumBrA}
PB Pe Cue

Sabre ET Clea 1a
CTE Pa Pe etc.

Kiddio - The Same One
SS ee yc

KPC ee oe
Hurtin’ Inside, So
Many Ways, etc.

TIME OUT

Us: DAVE BRUBECK QUARTET

ona
eRe) Ca le

to Get Ready, Every-
body’s Jumpin’, etc.

Tchaikovsky: _f
NUTCRACKER
SUITE

Leonard Bernstein *
N.Y. Philharmonic

100. “Skillfully per-

formed, beautifully
recorded’’—High Fid.

RPP CeCe les

CUCM lees
gD ee le

SERKIN

Piano Concertos Nos. 1 & 2

pC Meee (ees 45
Ue he a
brilliance’’N.Y.Times

CA Cae
Rib Joint, Mangos,
Pink Lady. 7 more

61. All the delight-
ful music from the
Tae ee lh A

rr Tabernacle Choir

92. The Bonnie Blue
Flag, Battle Cry of
Freedom, Dixie, etc.

JOHNNY HORTON’S
GREATEST HITS

COLUMBIA

67. Also: Comanche,
Johnny Reb. The Man-
sion You Stole, etc.

A DATE WITH
THE EVERLY
BROTHERS

73. Cathy’s Clown, A
Eee at eed
Hurts, Lucille, etc.

AT ee 41
continually hilari-
Ce amar

SPR ee OM oe
Cae Oa er
es) Tee) Te: ig)

Norman Luboff Choir

I'll Never
Smile Again

Paper Doll
The Breeze and |
plus 9 more

KIM tae
CT Ce ed
the Border, 10 more

CAST (a eee
RODGERS & HAMMERSTEIN
COLUMBIA

55. “A hit of gargan-

SCM ee a ee
SAME tees

Mes
OAS

ee) AY
Paes tT

78. Bye Bye Black-
bird, Walkin’, All
of You, etc.

ee re gh de
Roma; Oh, My Pree
Tren irtd Love; etc.

ROGER WILLIAMS

nee ee bale
SC Cu) am
sleeves, 12 in all

93-94. Two-Record Set (Counts as Two
Selections.) The Mormon Tabernacle
Choir; Ormandy, The Philadelphia Orch.

hPa) ee

—L. A. Examiner. Not
available in stereo

yi a Ch yD
It’s Wonderful, The
ST Ue) Co

REX HARRISON

JULIE ANDREWS

ae LADY
Ve Bi

J ORIGINAL

bt Bi ita 4
Th ae
ing of all time

71. Also: Billy the
DCC Puy ae ee
the. Valley, etc.

| MAHALIA JACKSON | JACKSON

The Power

eee Bo
- Te |
$4
a and Choi hy

aaa

29. Onward Christian °

Soldiers, Rock of
Ages, 12 in all »

D3 CARAVAN
rel

45. Also: The Third
ET em rl oe
Honky-Tonk, etc.

MUU a
villanas, Alegrias,
BEL ee Me

COLUMBIA

mad best. Limehouse

62. Also: Some Like
MC ening
ATT Pe dom

Afro) Percussion,
Olatunji

86. “It swings, it’s
full of excitement”
Ser hay erat

on ‘masterful
Cm UeuE eS
sme Vitae a0 Cae

Ballad of
Ral-ay UE Taio leg

Don’t Worry ©
Bel ee

72. Also: Streets of
COG Mme ly
Ride; El Paso: etc.

EP Cree
Semele tila
ee ic eee

84. Here’s jazz at

UMNO Eins om

HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY

SINK OR SWIM

IN THE WORLD
OF NEW YORK FASHION

With no money, but “scads of beaux” to advise her, Carol
Breckenridge launched her own business overnight.

By BETTY HANNAH HOFFMAN PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOSEPH DI PIETRO

In a corner of her sunny studio in mid-Manhattan, Carol Breckenridge’s
tumble of dark hair is bent over her drawing pad as she makes working
sketches of clothes designs. On her lap are piled cottons in luscious clear
colors of lime, citron, melon and turquoise. Her pencil sketches of blouses
and skirts are no more than three inches high; and indeed, in her size-seven
bare-armed dress Carol looks like a little girl drawing clothes for her paper
dolls.

On her white desk the turquoise phone rings constantly. If it’s a friend
or a date, she speaks in a soft, offhand little voice; if the call concerns
business, her tone is crisp and decisive. ‘““This is Carol Breckenridge, of
Merri-Carolle, speaking.’”’ Merri-Carolle is the fashion-designing firm she
launched last January. In its first year of operation her accountant esti-
mates she will gross upwards of $20,000.

Carol, who just turned 27, is a specialist in sportswear separates for
children and juniors. Clothing manufacturers pay her a fee of $200 a week
apiece to design for them. Her weekly income in the past year has varied
from $175 (rock bottom) to $800. ‘““This sounds like a lot of money, but
Carol is just learning the difference between gross and net,’’ comments the
young vice president of an advertising agency who lent her money to
get started.

During her first six months of operation, Carol took in $10,000 in fees,
an excellent start for a free-lancer in the fashion field. However, expenses
gobbled ‘up $8000 of this, leaving her only $2000 for living expenses.
(““Why, I spent a hundred dollars just on things like wastebaskets and
curtain rods,”’ says Carol, shocked.)

But having weathered the expense of setting up shop and buying equip-
ment (dress forms, cutting boards, sewing machines and a $325 room air
conditioner), Carol’s overhead will not rise appreciably in the future.
Her payroll of four helpers runs around $300 a week. As the business ex-
pands, she will be able to afford larger quarters and more helpers.

Before she became a free-lancer, Carol earned $600 a month as a de-

signer and spent all of it on herself. But during her first six months in

business she paid herself only $350 a month. She has cut her expenses to
the bone, spending only $15 a week for food, and walking instead of taking
taxis. Still, over the six months’ period she accumulated $500 in unpaid
bills, ‘mainly for clothes and doctors’ bills.’’

However, her credit is excellent and when she urgently needed $1000
ntly for business obligations, a leading New York bank was suffi-
tly impressed with her potential to lend her the money, with fifteen

mo to repay, on practically no collateral.
‘In the next few months, Merri-Carolle will either fold up or turn into
a very lucrative business,”’ believes her young CONTINUED ON PAGE 18

l perfect size seven, Carol often models her own “ beautifully pure” sportswear in clear Caribbean colors.

“How much?” asks Carol, who sees a thousand new fabrics a week, can choose instantly.

SINK OR SWIM CONTINUED FROM PAGE 16

accountant, who charges Carol half price for his serv-
ices. He urges Carol not to sell any shares in the
corporation. “You want all the gravy, don’t you?
You've had all the headaches, haven’t you?”’ he asks.
“Yes,” replies Carol feelingly.

Her most harassing financial problems concern cli-
ents who are slow to pay and clients who hire her for
only a few weeks at a time. Then, to meet her payroll,
she must quickly hustle up new business. She feels
that three months is the least amount of time in which
she can do justice to a new client. ‘“‘Clothes designing
is not a stop-and-go thing; it takes a lot of mental
effort and time,”’ says Carol with fierce professional
pride. Manufacturers, hiring her for a few weeks, and
pressing her almost at once for finished samples, don’t
always appreciate her groundwork, she feels: miles of
walking up and down Seventh Avenue; midnight
hours spent at her desk with the phone silent as she
sits with closed, weary eyes visualizing color and fabric
combinations.

“Oh, well,” comments a male friend condescend-
ingly, ‘““what does Carol have to lose? She’s talented.
Her clothes sell. She can always close shop tomorrow
and go to work for somebody else.”

But Carol, who has worked for a dozen or so fashion
houses, with staffs of designers, CONTINUED ON PAGE 20

er Pa
NAN

OWN
BUSINESS
ON

. . d soir s =) . . x Sg ei p ery ‘ w ”
“T have so little time to design,” frets Carol. A good dancer, skier, she walks ten miles daily. She collects kids’ books, plays chess “‘to forget my worries.

=a erect

ee ee aes

KOTEX and SLENDERLINE are trade marks of Kimberly-Clark Corp.

ey aioe eked G4 ae
Wehr er I ei

Carol is proud of her cooking; here serves ten p.m. dinner of her beef stroganoff to date, Chris Taylor, and friends.

Carol dates a circle of bright voung executives. “I want to be a designer and I want to have six children, too,” she says.

t 4

SINK OR SWIM

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 18

hates ‘“‘the company conference table’’
and ‘‘working through channels.’’ She
says, “‘I must be free to express my-
self in my own way. I know I’m the
best sportswear designer for juniors and
children in New York City. I’ve had
five hard years of struggle, but now
finally I’m on my way!”’

In the past, Carol seldom bothered
to find a new job before walking out on
one which displeased her. Now she is
discovering that being her own boss
means freedom to pay for her own mis-
takes. It also means four people (of
whom she is very fond) on the payroll,
dependent on her for their living.

“Considering how little I knew about
managing money, I’m amazed I’ve
done as well as I have,’ remarks Carol,
sitting at her desk in a hyacinth-blue
sheath which emphasizes her petite
5’2” figure and enormous blue-gray
eyes. ‘‘I hate this!” she adds, biting her
fingernails over the weekly payroll as
she consults a raft of charts showing
Social Security and Federal and state
withholding taxes.

Carol’s studio-apartment 1s a fourth
floor walk-up at 133 East 36th Street,
in the pleasant Murray Hill section of
New York. On the first floor lives a
fashion model with her infant and
live-in maid. Mell, the Herald Tribune
cartoonist, has his studio on the next
floor. Carol pays $200 monthly for the
top floor, using the large sunny front
room for her studio. The kitchen and
bathroom, both closet-size and window-
less, lead to the small living and bed
rooms, decorated sparingly in Early
American and Toulouse-Lautrec.

Carol’s incredibly complicated day
starts around 8:30, when she crawls out
of her studio couch. Although she eats
a sketchy breakfast of fruit juice and
coffee, and spends little time making up
her pretty face, it usually takes her an
hour and a half to “get going.’”’ She
dates almost every evening, choosing
from a group of six or seven young ex-
ecutives-on-the-rise in their late twen-
ties or early thirties, Ivy Leaguers ‘‘old
enough to have a sense of direction.”’
According to her ‘‘most romantic’”’
beau, a Phi Beta Kappa who went
through college on a_ scholarship,
‘““Carol’s beaux are all semimillionaires
who went to Princeton.” He adds
gloomily, ‘‘When you date Carol,
you're just a digit. Men have spoiled
her rotten.”’ This date almost always
arrives at Carol’s door bearing a single
red rose. Then he generally waits an
hour for her to get ready. She once kept
him waiting two and a half hours while
she pondered what to wear to meet his
mot her. CONTINUED ON PAGE 70

Flavor so delicious, only your figure will know they're low calorie

Now Wish-Bone brings you 2 new dressings that do
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That’s because of Wish-Bone’s skillful way of remov-
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for really satisfying salads the whole family will enjoy.

Se ee Dt ee eee as

|
I
i
qj

And she is! Carol Breckenridge thinks cooking]
should be creative to be fun, and manages to givel#
a dinner party every week from a corridor kitchen.
Her ways with food are as imaginative as her useie

of fabri :mines in the workroom. But her 6%’ x 5%’ kitchen has very little counter or storage space, and™
4 single-basin sink. Also, the kitchen is a passageway from the living room to the bathroom and the workroom.@
So Carol limits her guests for sit-down dinners to four, uses a plug-in cooker in her workroom or living room to}
ease the kitchen bottleneck, relies on do-ahead recipes. Beef Stroganoff is a favorite. She also does “‘a lot of chick-|
en thing ike Japanese chicken casserole. The recipe came from a Japanese girl, and Carol changed it to suit}

her own taste. Carol says, ‘“‘Most of the time I just cook out of my head and taste things. That way, cooking’s fun.”

Career-girl hostess Carol feeds her friends in the wo s here, on her living-room floor Japanese style or at a window-side table. Her party menus are planned with drama in mind.

ree-flights-up renovated apartment in a New York brownstone plug-in cooking appliance at a time. Her favorite is a white ceramic utensil

‘w electric circuit, dedicated to the air conditioner! The on an electric base, which is pictured with her here. She says, ‘““The whole

old netwo ng for lights and outlets is woefully outdated and Carol thing is so easy to clean—and I like its looks!’ The utensil, being made of
must allocate current carefully or fuses blow. It’s a paradoxical situation, durable material developed for missile nose cones, can be used separately,
for in rented apartments any improvements to the electrical systems are under a broiler, in an oven, or with its own handle on top of a stove.
things “you can’t take with you.” That means Carol can use only one Pictured with Carol’s foods: other devices to complement wee kitchens.

Make your “..
TCH CHT] (211) ies

McCormick and Schilling seasonings make good cooking so much easier — because there’s
real, full, honest flavor in every last pinch. You could probably season a dozen dishes with
a penny’s worth — but oh, what priceless flavor magic you’re adding!

Broiled Chicken
Marinate chicken in a mixture of
¥2 c. oil, 2 tbsp. lemon juice, % tsp.
Black Pepper, %4 tsp. Onion Salt,
VY tsp. Poultry Seasoning and 2 tsp.
salt. Broil. Brush with remaining
marinade or butter.

Herb Chicken
Dredge chicken in % c. flour sea-
soned with 2 tsp. salt, ¥%4 tsp. Black
Pepper, 12 tsp. Paprika and 12 tsp.
Herb Seasoning. Brown in 4 to 5
tbsp. hot butter. Sprinkle over

pieces of chicken 2 tsp. Instant
Minced Onion, ¥2 tsp. whole Thyme
and 42 c. liquid (wine, stock or
water). Cover. Cook slowly 45 min.
Chicken Oriental
Season chicken with salt and Black
Pepper. Dredge in flour. Place each
piece of chicken in a square of
heavy aluminum foil. Combine 2 c.
melted butter, 2 tsp. soy sauce, 2
tbsp. pineapple juice, 2 tsp. Instant
Minced Onion, 4% tsp. Ginger and
1/16 tsp. Cardamom. Spoon over

chicken. Seal piece of chicken
tightly in aluminum foil; place on
baking sheet. Bake 1 hr. 30 min. in
375°F. oven.

Fried Chicken Curry
Golden and crisp! Flour chicken in
a mixture of 44 c. flour, 2 tsp. salt,
4 tsp. Black Pepper, 4% tsp. Onion
Powder and 2 tbsp. Curry Powder.
Pan fry in 1 c. hot fat. For curry
sauce drain fat; add 2 to 3 tbsp.
of the curry-seasoned flour. Let
bubble 1 min. Add milk.

how

Fried Chicken Curry

The trouse of Flavow

McCORMICK in the East + SCHILLING in the West -
CLUB HOUSE in Canada

sa ter Sr Day be

HOW TO DRESS WELL ON
PRACTICALLY NOTHING!

BY BET HART

“My mother used to tell me, ‘The girl in the red
dress has the best time at the party,’ and it’s true! |
always feel brighter, gayer in red.”’ Carol Brecken

ridge’s fashion philosophy, fashion gaiety are
typically Barbara J. So is her ability to reap the most
fashion for the fewest $’s. (Reasons for making her
our Barbara Journal this month, as well as our How
America Spends Its Money, page 16, heroine.) The
red dress and matching jacket were designed by her
fora New York manufacturer. Carol added two bright
cover-ups. The designs stem from Carol’s theory: “I
think a wardrobe can consist of a few simple dresses,

several jackets to wear over them.”

Red hopsacking dress with a V-shaped yoke Is
typical of Carol’s love of “the simple, wear-almost
anywhere dress.’’ The price, $25.00, includes its
own matching jacket shown on Carol at left below.

Double-breasted jacket and dress combined make a
pretty costume look. Here, Carol adds a scarf. Jacket
is reversible. Other side: bright red and white Pin

stripes.

Bright red, white and blue cardigan: ‘No one could ‘
ever feel uncheerful in this! In the summer, tt

would be a wonderful combination over a white dress

too.”’ $5.95.

Carol, always on the lookout for beautiful prints,
thought this flower print unusual and gay. Cut like
a shirt, itcan be worn under or over the dress. $4.95
PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARK SHAW

alate

3 >
.
‘
;
:

a eet ———E —— —S—S

HOW T0 LOOK BEAUTIFUL
IN PRACTICALLY NO TIME!

As with fashion $'s, Carol Breckenridge makes the
most of her limited beauty time. “In the morning |
spend about five minutes on makeup.” Carol uses a
beige tone foundation (a medicated one she’s found
to be best for her oily skin), a light dusting of match-
ing powder, black mascara, dark brown eyebrow
pencil and clear red lipstick. “Eye makeup Is my fa-
vorite, but in the morning there’s just not enough
time. For evening, | spend a few extra minutes ap-
plying eye shadow, green or turquoise, and a black
eye liner.” Carol’s thick, dark hair has a slight curl,
“but not enough to go without a permanent. If |
have one every four months, then have my hair done
once a week, | don’t have to set it every night.”

Carol applies eye shadow, then blends it gently
across lid with finger. “Green is my most becoming
color, but sometimes | experiment with other colors.”

“The easiest way to apply an eye liner is to hold lid
taut; draw a thin line close to the base of the lashes.
Extend line upward at outer corner.’’ Carol uses
black eyeliner, then applies black mascara to lashes.

“A lipstick brush is the best way to achieve an even
line, but it was the hardest makeup trick to master.’
Carol starts from the center of the upper lip, care-
fully follows the outline of her mouth to corner.
After upper lip, she outlines lower, then fills in.
Here she “‘retouches’’ with brush.

Carol has her hair set on rollers for the soft, casual
effect she likes. ‘‘It’s a hair style that’s easy to care
for, that takes a minimum amount of time. Lots of
brushing keeps it in shape.”

By CLIFFORD R. ADAMS, Ph.D., Pennsylvania State University, Department of Psychology

MAKING MARRIAGE WORK

MAN months. I have a job I like and
I miss John and
made a real go of it.
ish, and he expected to make the decisions. I was used to
arated several times before the divorce, then would
never bothered to let me know if he was going to be late
“Our marriage was hopeless, but I don’t want to go
irritated John) and I’d like your views on the kind of
ested in me.
Mark is older (35), has been divorced, is rather quiet
“As for me, about all I can offer is myself and my
Mark would object to my working, but Bob might—

“I am 29, the mother of

WHICH daughters 10 and 9, and

have been divorced for six

John contributes to the girls’ sup-

port, so we’re all right financially.

SHOULD I 3."

lonely, but we

9 could never have

MARRY e We were both self-

having my own way (I guess my parents spoiled me)

so we often clashed and quarreled bitterly. We sep-
try it again, with no improvement.

“He was inconsiderate in big things and little—
for dinner, never had time to help me around the house
because he was tinkering with his latest sports car.
on living this way. I’ve always liked men and enjoyed
their attention (this was one of the things that
man I should marry. Right now I’m dating two men
to whom I’m attracted, and both are seriously inter-

“Bob is my age, never married, handsome and full
of life. He’s very possessive and likes to dominate.
and unassuming, and usually lets me have my own
way. Also, he seems crazy about my girls.
love. I’m not much of a cook or housekeeper, but I like
working and having my own money. I don’t think
he’s a lot like John and he wants to be the boss.

a el

IS MARRIAGE BASED ON SEX?

“Though a mere man, I have read your Journal
page for several years,” a recent letter says. ‘‘ But
your recent article Do All Men Want to Be Married?
takes a prize. Higher education must be quite a thing
when you write, ‘Particularly should a girl be on her
guard if a man’s interest and her appeal to him center
around sexual motivation.’ I am surprised that you,
of all people, would suggest that sexual motivation is
a bad thing! Do you really believe the attraction be-
tween men and women is something else than good
old sexual desire? Come, sir, your education is indeed
showing!”

A second man writes: “I feel any really good mar-
riage has to be built on a mutually strong sex desire.
My first marriage, when I was only 21, didn’t work
out because my wife was cold and indifferent. I took
my time about marrying again, and dated my present
wife for two years before we married. Now we have
had ten very happy years together. We like the same
things and do everything together. But I know this
marriage would have failed like the first if she and I
hadn’t loved each other in every way. If we hadn’t felt
the same way about sex, neither of us would have been
satisfied in marriage.”’

This marriage counselor would be the last person to
minimize the importance of sexual attraction in bring-
ing two people together and making marriage work.
But it should not be the primary or exclusive reason
for marriage. A normal person, under appropriate
circumstances, might feel physical response to any one
of scores of individuals of the opposite sex. But he or
she might be able really to love only a few of the
many that, on first acquaintance, seemed to be attrac-

ive and appealing.

“T think I could love and marry either of these men,
but both are settled in an agreeable way of life and
they would expect me to adjust to their habits and
routine. Do you think I can? I think a woman should
follow her husband’s lead, but I don’t think he should
force her to lead his life. I don’t want a man who
resents giving up his freedom (John did, and Bob
might) or who criticizes my little faults without trying
to understand them. I want him to help but not to
direct me.

“T can marry either one. Which do you think will
make me happier?”

Without more information than Laura’s letter pro-
vides, we can’t tell her which man to choose. Instead,
we suggest that she postpone any décision until she
has done some seridus, honest thinking about her own
qualifications for marriage to any man. It is not just a
question of which man will make her happy, but
whether she can make a man happy. Has the failure of
her first marriage taught her anything that will help
her in her second? Judging from her letter, Laura is
not yet ready (though she is willing) to marry again.

Though Laura doesn’t actually say her husband was
to blame for the failure of her first marriage, she does
emphasize his faults, while mentioning her own only
incidentally. She was spoiled by her parents, likes and
possibly encourages the attentions of other men, is a
poor housekeeper, insists on her own way, expects a
man to tolerate annoyances without complaint.

There is no indication that she is prepared to make
concessions, or that she appreciates the reciprocal
nature of the marriage relationship. Both Bob and
Mark may have the qualifications of a good husband,
but neither can make her happy (nor can any man)
until she recognizes and prepares to assume _ her
responsibilities as a wife.

The high remarriage rate of divorced women shows
that many of them have no difficulty finding a second

A man and a woman can be attracted to each other
for many reasons. Similar standards and ideals, com-
mon interests, affection and admiration, confiding and
sharing, and mutual goals are important elements in
genuine love. A desire to please each other and willing-
ness to compromise and co-operate are oftenmuch more
crucial to marriage happiness than strohg sex urge.

Although the writer of the second letter values
sexual adjustment very highly, his own statements
show that his successful marriage is based on other
elements. ‘“We like the same things . . . we do every-
thing together . . . she and I love each other in every
way.”” When a couple can say this and, in addition,
have a satisfying physical relationship, they can look
forward to many years of happiness in marriage.

There is little doubt that lack of good sexual ad-
justment can place a severe strain on any marriage.
Any wife, whether a bride of six months or a matron of
several years, should be concerned if her physical
relationship with her husband is unsatisfactory either
to him or to her. Refusing to face the problem cer-
tainly postpones any solution and often worsens the
situation.

Sexual motivation is not a bad thing any more than
is its expression and fulfillment in marriage. But any
man or woman who marries only because of sexual
attraction is simply asking for trouble. Unless there are
other ties in the marriage, physical compatibility alone
will not bring enduring happiness. At most, the sexual
relationship constitutes no more than one third of a
husband’s happiness and one fourth of a wife’s hap-
piness.

ASK YOURSELF: Why do I want to marry?

Have you ever stopped to think why you wanted to
marry? Nearly all women have a desire to marry but

husband. But the fact that the divorce rate of these
women is 60 per cent higher than among women
married for the first time is certainly associated with
failure to be a good wife the second time, or with lack
of wisdom in choosing a second mate. Laura, or any
other divorcee considering remarriage, might well

ponder these questions about her proposed husband: *

Do I love him? Has he the traits, qualities, per-
sonality and character that will through the years
foster affection? Encourage companionship? Inspire
respect and admiration?

Is he stable and dependable? The divorced wife may
still bear emotional scars from her first marriage. If
her new husband is well adjusted and reliable, her
adjustment to her second marriage will be facilitated.

Can he provide me with security? If the first two ques-
tions can be answered yes, he can probably provide
emotional security. But, as ina first marriage, economic
security must also be considered—his job history and
prospects, his resources and the like. If he is unwilling
to discuss these matters, she should be wary.

Has he my first husband’s faults? Students of mar-
riage have often noted that many divorced persons
select a second mate who possesses the same short-
comings as the first. Though no man is perfect, a
divorced wife should avoid a man afflicted by the same
faults she found intolerable in her first husband.

Will he make a good father? This question is impor-
tant when a couple plans to have children, is doubly
so when the wife had children by a former husband.

The best advice I can offer Laura is to pay more
attention to the kind of person she should become and
less (for the present) to the kind of man she should
marry. When she has matured and is able to accept,
understand and fill the role of wife and helpmate, she
will then be able to make an intelligent choice of mate.
But any commitment now—only six months after the
divorce—is almost certainly premature.

few of them have ever put into words the reasons
behind their wish. Read the following statements
carefully and check the seven that you honestly think
were the most important in your desire to become a wife.

I WANTED TO MARRY:

. To develop my personality.

. To be like other girls.

. To please my parents.

. To relieve my loneliness.

. To get away from an unhappy home.
. To escape the clock-and-job race.

. To become less restless and more stable.
. To express my deepest feelings.

. To make some man very happy.

10. To have a husband to love me.

11. To fulfill my emotional needs.

12. To have a home and children.

13. To love someone quite devotedly.

14. To have companionship and sharing.

CNA AAR & DS

Whatever your seven reasons for marriage, at least
five of them should be found among statements
No. 8-14. Our research shows that happy wives check
these as their main motives for marriage. If three or
more of your checks were among statements 1-7, there
is a definite possibility that you do not yet fully ap-
preciate the true meaning of marriage.

DO YOU AGREE?

“Do you favor New Year resolutions?”

Yes. When thoughtfully conceived and sincerely
motivated, resolutions always have merit. But share
them with a friend who will encourage you to maintain
them.

a eee

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cH S aaa
Modern research techniques that encourage the most thoughtful response were used in

this probing Journal study by Dr. George Gallup of the young American woman’s mind.
This creative-age group—16 to 21—spans the final years of high school through college,

thi

and includes some women who are working and some at home. About 23 per cent are em;| °
ployed, 23 per cent in high school, and over 50 per cent in college. None are marriedj| —
and those questioned do not include the lower third in education and income. In follow-| *
ing issues, Gallup polls will reveal more attitudes and ideas of these inventive and spir- 5
ited young women. What do they most desire? What do they ask of the future? 3
Ct

Young people, on the verge of life, about
to create careers, families, inventions, new
ways of living are already beginning to shape
the ’60’s, to forecast the ’70’s.

Women, soon to be wives and mothers,
homemakers and innovators, here reveal
their thoughts, plans, ideas, desires—spiri-
tual and material.

In this burgeoning group, our exploding
population will soon reach new heights. By
their very numbers, by their vitality and
creative energy, by their unorthodox think-
ing, their new and old beliefs, their doing and
redoing, they will determine much of the
direction of our world to come.

Astonishingly conventional in unexpected
areas, surprisingly honest about sex and mar-
riage, young women in this Journal's nation-
wide depth study predict, in fascinating
ways, the attitudes of tomorrow’s citizens,
opinion leaders, money spenders.

\Imost all our young women between 16

and 21 expect to be married by 22. Most want
4 children, many want 5. (In their minds, the
population is still exploding.) They want to
work until children come; afterward, a re-
soundi

They cial responsibility for sex be-
cause they are women. An 18-year-old student
in Californi ( ll andard for men—
‘sowing wild oat results in sown oats. And
where does this leave the woman? Sexual

FORESMAOOWING TE 70

intercourse isn’t a game. It is intensely sacred
and meaningful for both men and women.”’
Another student: ““A man will go as far as a
woman will let him. The girl has to set the
standard.”

““My moral code is what I live by and is a
necessary part of life. If I break it, I would be
taking a part of myself away,” an 18-year-old
said. Another: “I do not feel women should
‘experiment’ before marriage. I don’t feel it
is as serious for men. However, after marriage
it is definitely out! Both parties should re-
main faithful.”

Few of the young women who spoke so
openly to our interviewers agree with the
college freshman who said, ““Sex 1s fun, so why
stop it for one and not the other? There
should be no double standard. Be honest;
both men and women enjoy it.”

But a pretty college sophomore in the
South said, “I do not condemn a young man
who indulges in premarital relationships.
However, a woman is not only taking a ter-
rific chance, but she is also forgetting the re-
sponsibility she has to her future husband
and children.”

Although the mothers and grandmothers
of today’s young women pretended, in their
day, that premarital sex did not exist (or
were stopped by the conventions of their up-
bringing from acknowledging it), today’s
young woman speaks out loud and clear:

“T definitely believe that a young woman
should remain virginal until marriage, but
I don’t feel a young man should. A man
needs a way to relieve his frustrations. I
also believe that one partner in marriage
should have some experience, and it couldn’t
be the female.” |

But a 17-year-old, about to be graduated
from high school, represents a more wide-
spread reaction:

“Tt never seems to harm a boy’s reputation,
but a girl’s reputation is ruined. I think boys
should establish a standard as well as girls.”

Unorthodox and frank as many are, by far
the preponderance of the young women re-
vealed themselves as cherishing the custodial
tradition in guarding marriage and the child.

THEY DREAM OF MANSIONS

However unconventional they can be in
their attitudes toward sex, many of the same
women become unexpectedly conventional
when questioned about their dream house:

“T would like an eight-room, two-story -
colonial home: living room, dining room,
kitchen, den and bath downstairs; master
bedroom, guest room, two other bedrooms
and bath upstairs. I would like the house to
be white with a large front porch with four
large white columns. I would like a drive
that makes a semicircle and I would like to
live in the country. I would like a typically

colonial living room with an enormous fire-
place. I would like a pine-paneled den.”

Another described almost the identical
house, only she located it in Hawaii and
added a balcony, marble floors, a recreation
room, crystal chandeliers, and a swimming
pool ‘‘oval shaped and not too large.”

More often, though, our women are satis-
fied just to have the white colonial with Early
American furniture without additional em-
bellishments. Though they often describe
this same house, a large number insist that,
to be a dream house, it must be located on a
hill with acres of land overlooking a lake.

Others are startlingly specific: “I want a
house 1250 square feet.”’. . . “I want a split-
level brick with four bedrooms with French
Provincial cherrywood furniture.” . . . “My
dream house is 64 feet long and 23 feet
high.” .. . “I’d like a built-in oven and range,
counters only 34 inches high with Formica on
them.” . . . “The draperies will be green,
ivory, beige and brown.”

And a few are eloquently undemanding:
An 18-year-old said simply, ‘““My dream house
is going to be a home, a houseful of love and
happiness and health.’ From a 19-year-old
student in Philadelphia: ‘‘A home is as lovely
and comfortable as the people who live in it.
The furniture matters little.”” A California
girl almost ‘“‘me-too’d” her: “A house is not
a dream home until it has been lived and
loved in.”

Many reveal a knowledge of furnishings
and decorating, designing and planning that
would rival some experts’. Left standing al-
most alone, however, was the 20-year-old
secretary who said, “I really haven’t a
definite dream house. It depends on the man
{ marry and what we can afford.’”’ And a col-
lege sophomore: “I have little desire to own a
home after Iam married. I intend to live in an
apartment house, preferably in Manhattan.”’

“A wife earning more than her husband damages his ego.”

WILCOX

> / i :
: e
Pies : FS

“After marriage is the right time for sex.’

SCHREIBER

BUY AND BUY

New forms of buying will grow up around

the changing needs of our young women who

* already spend billions. New merchandise will
evolve as they choose small families or large,
small houses or large, small cars or large. By
the books they read, the churches they be-
lieve in, the ideals they follow, the trails they
blaze in living and thinking, they inevitably
will set the pace for the future.

Many indications of these changing buying
habits are built into the specific descriptions
of every girl’s dream house at the end of this

.report. Many more less specific indications
are revealed by their changing preferences in
foods, clothes and cosmetics.

Their husbands will be well fed. But better
than half indicate he’ll be on “‘meat and po-
tatoes.” A stirring 46 per cent, though, plan
to serve much better food, in different and
more interesting ways than in their own fami-

‘lies’ homes. They are more gourmet than
their mothers, are more diet-conscious, more

“T hope I am married at least by 22!”

“Men dress too sloppily!”

HENDERSON

mek \ 4
“When I marry I want to go down the aisle with a clear con- “Colonial for me, with while pillars
science... but I think that a man should know the ropes.” and sliding glass doors onto a patio.”

St | he
“A woman has a right
to expect her husband
to be as chaste as she.
Men aren’t as inca-
pable of controlling
their emotions as they
would have us believe”
...a 20-year-old girl.

experimental, more exotic, have more
knowledge about nutrition.

Money, only “fairly important”’ to
most of these young women, is not
expected to be a problem in their mar-
riages. Only one in five thought it
might be. At the same time, a third
of them say money is a source of
trouble in families they know. Still
more say mother should (and their
mothers do) have a lot to say about
how it is spent.

If there’s wealth, a surprising num-
ber appear to revise that affectionate
old adage: ‘‘What’s yours is mine and
what’s mine is my own.” If they mar-
ried a young man who was wealthy,
most young girls felt he should share
his wealth with them. However, if
they had money in their own name,
they were not as certain they should
divide it equally with their husbands.

In any case, most women would be
uneasy about having more money
than their husbands, especially a
larger salary than his if they were
working. They feel it would injure a
man’s pride, lessen his sense of im-
portance. A few said a wife with a
higher income than her husband
would be “too independent, too
dominating.”

NOT READY TO GO STEADY

Relatively few of our young women
are engaged and only 22 per cent “go
steady.”” Those remaining (over 65
per cent of the age group) who are not
yet pinned to or pining for a par-
ticular young man make it abun-
dantly clear that they do not plan to
grow old as anyone’s maiden aunt.
Only 1 per cent even considered that
they might never marry.

Even the most dedicated career-
bent girl insists she will have her man
and her job and her home. Most,

Jacqueline Kennedy was named the best-dressed
woman in the world. Next were Princess Grace,

however, would quit working when
they have children.

Like our own ‘How America
Spends Its Money” career girl this
month (page 16), those who plan to

!continue their careers—come home,
husband or high water—are con-
cerned about the scarcity of trained,
competent women available to man-
age their homes and their children
while they are at work. They believe
such a kind of occupation should be
developed and honored and not con-
|sidered “menial.’”’ They would pay
such women on an average of $50
for a 40-hour week and think that the
full expense for home help to enable
trained mothers to continue working
should be allowed as an income-tax
deduction.

DO WOMEN DRESS
FOR WOMEN?

More than half of our young
‘women say they dress for men, not
for other women. And the older our
"young woman gets, the less she’s con-
cerned with the turn of a hem than
with the turn of a him.

At the same time, one out of three
was firm in suggesting that a single
standard should exist in dressing too!
If women dress for men, why, they
_ask, shouldn’t men dress for women ?
They are not satisfied with men’s
dress; they are definitely critical of it,
in fact. They feel men should dress
with much more care and neatness;
more style and formality; more color
_and variety.

But our single girls are equally

critical of their married sisters. A
| whopping 89 per cent of them declare
that women who stay at home are not
-as careful about the:way they dress
and look as they should be. And most
-add that women CONTINUED ON PAGE 72

Loretta Young and Queen Elizabeth. All have
been subjects of recent Journal biographies.

ENGSTEAD

AL FRANCEKEVICH

“There will always be —
a double standard, but
Ihopetoteachmyson
the value of sex with
love and the lesser
value of sex foritsown
sake”... a teenage

rea A a cra a asm et are Me amen ee ROO NOT EM ILET "PTE RE ON Lee a es k: ata S

On sunny afternoons like this, while the rest of Madrid is still asleep, |
come here early, where I can sit and watch for the post office to open
while I have my coffee. This is the heart of the city, this little coffee
stand, with its tables under shade trees, its well-mannered waiter and
its view of the post office. At this hour all the Spanish are in siesta-
darkened rooms, and only the tourists and I are here.

Two years ago, when I first came to Madrid, an American girl, espe-
cially a blond one, was so rare that the college students from the down-
town campus followed me down the José Antonio whenever I went
shopping. I used to pick up my mail at the American Express and the
single clerk there would look up and smile and start thumbing through
the S’s just as I approached. But now there are three clerks handing out
the mail; they have no time to be friendly; and I find it hard to believe
them when they tell me that there is nothing for me in that swollen
packet of mail they flip through so disinterestedly. So I have my letters
sent to the Spanish General Delivery, where I can peer down at the file
box to make sure for myself that there isn’t a “‘Singer’’ among all the
‘“‘Sanchezes”’ and ‘‘Salvadors.”’

Madrid’s post office is more impressive than the one in New York
City. It is taller and grayer, and full of colonnades that make shadows
and angles worthy of a cathedral. It has a clock which is not always right
and which seems to give little inspiration to the doorman. He opens the
post office at will: five minutes, ten, even twenty minutes past the hour.

Therefore I now sit across from the post office at this sidewalk café
where I can’t see the doors, but where I’ll know they are opening by
watching the black blotch of the porter’s cape melting into and being
absorbed by the gray shadows of the stone building. All the dreams I
had when I first came to Spain have now faded and telescoped themselves
down to this one hope: that the letter will arrive saying that I have a
teaching position at home, in America, saying between the lines that
all is forgiven; I’ll forget, or will be able to talk lightly about, all that
has happened— grandpa, Spain, Tangier . . . and Joseph.

There are many things which I am glad my grandfather never knew.
The greatest of these is that it was his money which sent me to Africa.
He would not have liked it had he CONTINUED ON PAGE 85

: THE JOURNAL’S COMPLETE-IN-ONE-ISSUE CONDENSED NOVEL.
By NANCY DUGHI © 1961 BY NANCY DUGHI. ‘“‘STRAIT PASSAGE”’ IS SOON TO
BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK FORM BY COWARD-MCCANN, INC.

He gently

touched my face
with his hands.
“You aren’t playing
games with me,

are you?”

Illustrated by Coby Whitmore

By MINI RHEA

WITH FRANCES SPATZ LEIGHTON

Jackie’s Washington newspaper column posed questions designed to have a certain effect on a certain
congressman. Example: “Can you give any reason why a contented bachelor should get married?”

THE YOUNG
gd

KENNEDY

debut in 1951 accompanied

EUROPEAN

named Debutante of the Year in 1948, attended a

Peter Vought.

1 was home at last! How proud I was to direct
the placement of my bronze plaque—‘‘Mini
Rhea, Custom Dressmaker’’—beside the door-
way of 1820 35th Street, N.W., a typical flat-
Someday, perhaps,
“Through

this door passed Jacqueline Kennedy.”

front Georgetown house.

someone will put up another sign there:

But what a strange chain of circumstances
led her to this door.

I was working as a dressmaker in a sewing-
machine store four or five blocks from the White
House. But I almost muffed my big chance,
which came in the form of a rotund maid who
spoke with a Slavic accent. She kept seeking me
out and asking me to come with her to the
“The madame will be so

“madame” because

grateful. The old regular dressmaker, she die.”
| kept telling her that I was too busy to go.

mad-
Lord I did, because

turned out to be one of the leaders

Finally I did promise to come see her “
Thank the dear

““madame’”’

ame.”

of Washington society. And she and her friends
gave me enough work to get started in my own
shop. A long line of people eventually led me to
Jacqueline Bouvier.

First I met Mrs. Neill Phillips. She recom-
-Mrs. Walter Lipp-
mann, Mrs. Ella Burling, Mrs. Curtis Munson,
Mrs. Blair Childs and Mrs. Arthur Krock. Mrs.

Krock, wife of the famous New York Times

mended me to five friends

political columnist, in turn recommended me toa
friend of hers, Mrs. Hugh Auchincloss. And Mrs.
Auchincloss eventually recommended me to her
daughters, Caroline Lee and Jacqueline Bouvier.

My Georgetown shop was the beginning of a
wonderful new life. Rarely have I met a woman
so sensitive, attractive and kind as Mrs. Auchin-
closs. She shopped in Georgetown, but lived in
nearby McLean, Virginia. She liked my work
and her stamp of approval sent many of her
Though I
worked hard, the relaxed atmosphere surround-

Georgetown friends to my _ shop.

ing these charming women made it all seem like
play or a pleasant hobby.
[ kept hearing about Jackie from her mother

for several years before I set eyes on her. Jackie

was here; Jackie was there. She was at the Sor-
bonne; she was at George Washington Univer-
sity. She was vacationing in New York, in
Florida, in Europe; I decided she must keep her
bags packed at all times.

Mrs. Auchincloss was so happy, in 1951, when
she told me that her daughter had just won
Vogue’s coveted Prix de Paris. The winner was
entitled to spend half a year in France, working
on the Paris edition of Vogue, and a half year as
a junior editor on Vogue in New York.

I was amazed to learn a little later that, be-
cause she had already spent a year studying at
the Sorbonne, Jackie had decided not to take the
year’s job with Vogue. Had she accepted, it
would have put her directly into the fashio»
field, just as it had twenty-three other your:
women then on the staff of Vogue or the oth. «
Condé Nast publications who had been previous
winners of the Prix de Paris. I was even more
amazed when Mrs. Auchincloss told me she
wanted to bring Jackie in to meet me, so that |
could work with her on some of her fashion
ideas. Me, working with a prizewinner in fash-
ion? It made me nervous even to think of it.

Mrs. Auchincloss put me at ease. She said,
““My daughter likes to design her own clothes
and I know she would love to work with some-
one like you who could help her with them.”’

I waited nervously for the prizewinning fashion
expert to come in. She had made her appoint-
ment by telephone and as soon as I heard her
voice my mind flashed the signal ‘‘Finishing
school.”” Many of my customers had gone to
finishing school, but this voice had something be-
sides the perfect tones, soft modulation and
self-confidence of private-school training The
added ingredient was gentleness—even on the
telephone she sounded warm and kind. And she
sounded in a hurry, something my finishing-
school products never admitted.

It was a Saturday and I tried to get my daugh-
but

Sylvia and twelve-year-old Jimi could almost

ters from underfoot, fourteen-year-old

smell excitement and gravitated to it like moths

around a flame. CONTINUED ON PAGE 75

A JOURNAL COMPLETE-IN-ONE-ISSUE CONDENSED BOOK
) COP ae HT ee FLEET PUBL ISHING CORP. FROM THE BOOK,

CQUELINE

SNNEDY’S DRESSMAKER,’

I WAS
SOON TO BE PUBL (SH s BY FLEET PUBLISHING CORPORAT ION, NEW YORK.

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Camera Girl’’—

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into a
rooftop pool
to photo-

graph the feed-

ing of goldfmh.

rae

a s,

aes

family who insist on making 1t come true.

don’t always recognize their own charm.

By CATHARINE BOYD

Virginia had had just about enough of this 900-calorie-a-day liquid-diet
bit. Not only was she confronted with vanishing waistlines every time
she turned on TV, but most of her figure-conscious friends had taken
to quaffing the stuff for lunch, and as far as she was concerned the whole
idea was nauseating. Just the sight of that frothy richness in a elass
aroused her indignation—why, it didn’t even leave room for the satis-
faction of self-denial! There it was, contrived to appear like a lovely
double-rich chocolate-ice-cream milk shake! Of all deceitful things.

Her own way of dieting was certainly wiser—one drop of cream in
her coffee instead of two, and thin marmalade on her toast instead of
butter. How was a woman expected to clean a three-bedroom house with
nothing but liquids sloshing around in her stomach? Or hang out a wash
for five people every Monday? Oh, Mondays!

“Vee, you don’t eat enough,” Dix had scolded her just this morning.
“You worry me. I’ve got enough to worry about at the mill.”’

“Everything I eat turns into fat,” Virginia explained helplessly. ‘“‘I
have to think zbout my figure, Dix.’

Dix had smiled. “Let me think about it. I like it fine.”’

She sat down now to read the morning paper, a pleasure she dearly
enjoyed—it was less than two months since Winkie, her youngest, had
started school, and up until then she’d depended on Dix for her news.

Her reading finished, she went to the range and made butterscotch
pudding and poured it into custard cups. She never made one for herself,
just three for the children, who ate lunch at home.

She absently scraped and ate the pudding left in the pan, scarcely
more than a spoonful. Then she got out last night’s lamb bone and cut
off the scraps of meat for the dog, nibbling a few of the tender pink bits
as she worked. Lean meat was one of the very best things for losing
weight. Oh, how good it would taste dipped in mayonnaise! She sighed.

Virginia imagined that there were women all over the country right
this minute eating Danish pastry, and waffles with bacon and syrup, and
day after day all she ate was one slice of toast with marmalade, And still
she could hardly get into a size 16, unless it had a full skirt. True,
nobody seemed to notice—Dix still hustled home every night full of fun

and flattery, and Bo herded Cub Scouts in every CONTINUED ON PAGE 67

There’s nothing so exploswéas a

woman with a dream, unless it’s a

A very special story for women who

Mary had

doused the pillow

with perfume,

Bo offered his hamsters,
and Winkie brought

a small, danip bouquel.
“All this fuss and

nol even a decent fracture,”

Virginia said.

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Peter Briggs (center) and Kathleen

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pastaaietets etsteveescetasntetesmearts orsinnsee rma actata Lats pert
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EATING
IN

Snead (right) enjoying dinner atO. HENRY’S.

Shy oil la atacand aaah eh herria

Journal food editors have to visit
New York’s famous and fabulous res-
taurants—it’s their job! Discovering de-
licious new dishes ; coaxing cuisine secrets
from some of the world’s most distinguished
chefs, enjoying the special charm each
restaurant offers—what is more exciting ?
To share in these delights you don’t have to
come toManhattan. Travel instead through
these pages, as our editors visit eight of
New York’s great restaurants, find in
each a special recipe for you—foods sim-
ple, sumptuous, mysterious, all conveying

the wonder of New York, its gift

of good food. Bon appetit!

O. HENRY’S

One of New York’s newest steak houses is O. HENRY’S
in Greenwich Village (6th Avenue at West 4th
Street), whose sawdusty floors, chopping-block tables
and straw-hatted waiters give it the look of a turn-of-
the-century butchershop (which it once was). Two of
the four rooms, all Tiffany-lamp-lighted, were orig-
inally walk-in refrigerators. For décor, their cooling
coils, meat hooks and trolleys were preserved and
painted. The hub of O. HENRY’S is an open red
hearth where melt-in-your-mouth steaks are char-
coal-grilled the way you want them. O. HENRY’S
is one of the few open-every-day restaurants. Al-
though its two-A.M. closing (three on Sunday A.M.) and
moderate prices makeit an actor’shaven,O. HENRY’S
has a fond uptown, out-of-town following.

Vito Di Lucia, owner of O. HENRY’S, appeals to
steak-potato-and-salad lovers by offering all three,
plus an appetizer and a gentle dessert.

Shrimp Cocktail with Remoulade Sauce
Sirloin Steak Baked Potato
Mixed Green Salad with Roquefort Dressing
Rum-Raisin Ice Cream with Black Cherries

THE MAKING OF A GREAT STEAK

O. HENRY’S has no special hints for broiling steak—
theirs simply go from cooler to charcoal to table.
“The secret of a good steak,” says Vito Di Lucia, “‘is
the meat itself. We buy the best choice and hang it in
our own walk-in cooler for ten to fourteen days so
that it’s perfectly aged for broiling.” O. HENRY’S
most popular steaks are 114” thick sirloins for one or
two and clubs, almost 2” thick. Each is grilled to
order—14 minutes per pound for rare, 17 for medium, 20
for well done. Every steak comes to you sizzling,
with a baked potato and salad.

=.*

oe) //

Through the Iron Gate at 21 West 52nd Street walks
a clientele of artists, writers, dukes, princesses, show-
folk and plain folk, too, who come and come again for
the excellent French-American cuisine and relaxed
camaraderie. Be sure to dress well, for “21,” with its
dark-paneled walls, fine Remington paintings, Shef-
field and sterling, is luxurious. For more than 30
years spécialités have been served, including bear and
venison in season. A popular dessert, says “21” Ex-
ecutive Director Peter Kriendler, is Frozen Soufflé
with Hot Strawberry Sauce. Although ‘‘21”’ finds
room for ‘“‘oldsfriends,”’ visitors with reservations are
welcome. Peter Kriendler maintains that a hearty
meal is best when followed by a delicate dessert like
Frozen Soufflé.

For atmosphere and excellent food, Editors Berenice Connor and Conrad Brown pick ‘‘21.”’

Here is the menu he would plan for this dessert:
Prosciutto with Sliced Fresh Pear or Figs
Turtle Soup
Duckling Bigarade with Wild Rice
Peas Etuvé (steamed with lettuce)
Cold Oyster Bay Asparagus Vinaigrette
Frozen Soufflé with Hot Strawberry Sauce
FROZEN SOUFFLE

5 WITH HOT STRAWBERRY SAUCE
SOUFFLE:
1 pint vanilla ice cream 14 cup heavy cream
2 macaroons, crumbled 1—2 tablespoons chopped
4 teaspoons orange juice toasted almonds
or Grand Marnier 1—2 teaspoons
confectioners’ sugar
Soften ice cream slightly. Stir in the crumbled
macaroons and orange juice or Grand Marnier. Whip
heavy cream until thick and shiny. Fold into ice-
cream mixture. Spoon into a 3-cup metal serving
dish or mold. Sprinkle surface lightly with almonds
and confectioners’ sugar. Cover with saran. Freeze
until firm, about 4-5 hours or overnight. Bring the

frozen soufflé to the table on a serving dish. To un-
mold, wrap the serving dish for 4 or 5 seconds in a
towel wrung out of very hot water. Loosen the edge
with a spatula and turn out onto a cold platter.

Makes 4 servings.

HOT STRAWBERRY SAUCE:

1 pint fresh strawberries, Si
washed, hulled and
cut in half, or 1 (10-o0z.)
package frozen sliced
strawberries, thawed

to taste
easpoons orange
juice or Grand

Marnier

Mix this sauce just before serving. Put berries in a
saucepan with sugar added to taste (about 14 cup for
fresh berries, less for frozen berries) and simmer until
soft but not mushy. Remove from heat and

juice, or Grand Marnier if you prefer.

Note: You may use the 1l-pound contaii frozen
whole strawberries if you wish. If so, double the
amount of orange flavoring suggest here.

CONTINUED ON PAGE 60

ee _tttt#aeeeeeeeeee eee

By NORA O'LEARY

Pattern Editor

The four young JOURNAL editors you see on these pages are
typical of the career girls who flock to New York every year
in search of fame and fortune. Whether their talents are
literary or artistic, their jobs in fashion or publishing, clothes
are one of the things uppermost on their minds. To be well-
groomed and well dressed takes time and careful planning.
These girls live in a goldfish bowl morning, noon and night, but
they also live on a budget. Designs that lend themselves to
change (the skirt that can be worn with a variety of blouses or
the suit that changes its neckline with the season) are the most
popular; the colors are chosen strictly for their becomingness.

Eugenie Thayer, a talented young writer, has the figure of
a fashion model: tall (5'84"), slim (24” waist) as well as grace-
ful. Her clothes are simple and casual, and when she enter-
tains at home she most often wears a long skirt like the yellow
wool one she is wearing in the picture. With it she is wearing
a yellow silk crepe blouse and an avocado-green cummer-
bund. The shirt, Vogue Design No. 5213. The skirt, No. 5420.

PIN BY SCAAS

PHOTOGRAPHS BY LEOMBR

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OPI II RE RAP 9 Re we

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hil eh ee hae bitdig
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The Pattern Department's own Natalie Schram has the ad-
vantage of previewing all the lovely next season's fabrics
and yarns long before they are seen in the stores, thus
helping to predict what you will be wearing three months
from now. Natalie favors unadorned simplicity and you see
her wearing a putty-beige sleeveless crepe dress with a box-
pleated skirt topped by a matching wool cardigan.The jacket
is bound in the dress fabric. Vogue Design No, 4327.

BAG BY ARTBAG CREATIONS

Carol Gaffron, a bride of less than a year, covers a variety
of press parties and reports what is new and interesting.
Here you see her leaving an early morning breakfast show
wearing a lovely cherry-red coat designed by Guy Laroche,
over a slim black wool-jersey dress included in the pattern.
Her flowered carpet bag picks up the red of the coat, and
her beige breton is by Emme. Coat, Vogue Design No. 1088.

BAG BY RICHARD KORET

jae

Bet Hart, whose day may take her to Seventh Avenue to select
clothes for Barbara Journal, to a well-known beauty salon to
check the model's coiffure, and on to Central Park with a
photographer for a location shot. She adores suits and can
wear them belted because of her 22” waistline. Bet’s blue wool
suit shown here buttons to the side and has a removable
scarf collar. In the spring Bet will change to a polka-dot
scarf and make a matching blouse. Vogue Design No. 5428.

BAG BY BARBOUR BELT BY BEN KING

ee TE, Rieke &

OTHER VIEWS, SIZES, PRICES OF VOGUE PATTERNS ON PAGE 78

_ Se

Coming at the right midwinter moment, fashions to

put the glint of spring in the eye of the wearer: new
colors and stunning combinations, dresses that are
nothing if not provocative, suits that dash to the best

luncheons and to box office afternoons. Dare to

think of black satin with baby-blue flannel, of a pale
pink coat over a sea-green print! These and all the
other show-stoppers are January-to-June fashions.

Left: Pale, pale wool has the coveted serene look—

the simplest dress with a string-tie sash and little

collarless jacket with scrol! facing, from the new

young custom-order collection by Donald Brooks.

Below left: About-to-be femme fatale black satin

dress turns ingenue with a baby-blue flannel jacket,

also Donald Brooks custom order; worn with bright

ano leds
.
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turquoise earrings, smooth little black satin bag.

Below center: Three that will shine out in any scene:

TO the pale gold wool suit with the bow jacket, beautiful
a and happy for months tocome, by Alvin Handmacher;
ME the early-bird silk in a glow color with a print over-

blouse by Leonard Arkin; the wool stole dress by

Mollie Parnis, a flash of ravishing pink-red with a
pretty terrific silhouette, for luncheon or late-day.

WILHELA CUSHMAN

Below: Two vivacious wools that go everywhere,
winter North or South: the blue wool sashed coat
dress by Mollie Parnis; the chamois-colored wool

overblouse dress by Larry Aldrich, worn with furs.

30LD0 AND DIAMOND NS WORN ON THE HAND-

ee ee Tc Ane EE ae Opposite: A coat-and-print costume with pure fem-
inine wiles, for all-out important afternoons only,
pink wool with pure silk and matching straw hat by
Christian Dior, N.Y.; also an instant hit, and more
round-the-clockish—the almond-green wool suit with
a printed blouse by Alvin Handmacher; beauty of

a bag by Jacamo, multicolor pin by Lilly Dache.

fos

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me : ; } :

- NO CHECKS O “ORDERS ACCEPTED
Examine Your Tickcts Before Leaving The Window
As No Mistakes Will Be Rectified flerwards.
No Tickets Exchanged Or Money Refunded.

NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR RE RVATIONS LEPT AT THE, BOX OFFICE

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THE
PERFECT
LITTLE

SIX-

PIECE
WARDROBE!

BY WILHELA CUSHMAN Fasuion epitor

The young, the going idea is to travel as light as pos-
sible. The one-suitcase theory—keep it small, mix-
able, pleasurable. We are showing you how five fash-
ions plus a cape (not a coat, mind you) can cover every
blessed trip minute, looking different and delightful.

Left: Clever smocked dress in an incredibly pretty
print can turn up any hour of the day, by Anne Klein.
Sharp pink sings out as the predominant color, but
look—also blue, green and orange. Letter-flat en-
velope bag (from Shangri-la), pearls by Imperial.

Top left: Possibly the most notable takeoff traveler in
this tripping world is the three-piece knitted suit.
This one in bright navy and white with the new short
cardigan look, by Kimberly. Note: ingenious young
traveler chooses a cape in nubby natural tweedy linen
by Ellen Brooke to go over everything. The great go-
with-its: big red leather bag, jersey beret, surah scarf.

Top right: The patchwork bathing suit is... shall
we say, deceptively simple? Matching beach coat is
lined with bright orange, both by Jantzen. And now
it's the thing to wear beads with bathing suits (these
are from India); and a heart-shaped bag in straw

Below left: Little pink linen that goes out nights—the
princess silhouette with a smooth young curve and a
shoulder bow, by Anne Fogarty. It’s a day dress, too,
worn with a sweater and the straw bag. New bangles
are enamel, pink and blue, by Sandor Goldberger.

Below right: Cheers for tte three-piece linen suit in
Ted, white and blue, best mixer you could take; both
overshirt and jacket go also with shorts and slacks,
By Toni Owen. Wear a gold bracelet, shortest gloves.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY WILLIAM HELBURN

They stood at the harbor’s edge, bewitched

by the boats and the bells and the wind

coming clean and cool off the blue water.

By JOHN LATHAM TOOHEY

The Amstel Hotel in Enkhuisen is on a quiet street
just off the waterfront. It is small and unpreten-
tious; its rooms are large and airy, and clean as the
Dutch make things clean.

As is true of many of Holland’s hotels, the Amstel
has an old-fashioned billiard room, dark-paneled,
lit only by the glare of the tin-sheathed white lights
that hang over the smooth green cloth.

Many years ago Herbert Henry Gresham II also
had a billiard room, in his Hudson River house a
few miles north of Tarrytown. It pleased him to
teach Arabella, the youngest of his daughters, to play.

“Grace is so pretty that nobody’s ever going to
notice her startling lack of brains,”’ he said to the
wide-eyed little girl who was too thin and too tall.
She was listening to him very intently, the way she
listened to everything this hearty, mustached, im-
patient, lovable man said. He chalked his cue briskiy
as he talked. ‘“‘Get the chalk on evenly and you
won’t miscue. Heloise can make the boys laugh, so
she'll be all right. But I believe you may need a few
extra things going for you, little Belle.”’

They spent many Saturday and Sunday after-
noons in the billiard room. He taught her to bridge
firmly with her left hand, to stroke as'smoothly as a
piston, to draw and to follow, and to use English.
She learned to play the diamonds, and he even
taught her the most spectacular stroke, the masse.
Allin all, Arabella became quite decently proficient.

And now, at twenty-five, she was sitting in the
lounge bar of the Amstel Hotel, a small glass of
chalky-tasting genever in front of her. Her face was
too thin for beauty, but far too alert for plainness;
her legs were a little too long, but they were good
legs; and her eyes were remarkable, wide-set, always
candid, frequently merry. She was having a late-
afternoon drink while she waited for her cousin, Lily
Lodge, to come back from exploring the town. Lily
was a boisterous games mistress of a girl, Arabella’s
age. She and Arabella complemented each other very
successfully, the slender, quiet brunette and the
romping blonde.

Arabella sipped at her genever and thought about
noisy New York, so impossibly far away from her
now, as she sat in this little glade of Old World
serenity. Even the dust motes moved gently in the
single shaft of sunlight that streamed down on an old
oak table that held a burnished silver platter.

Malcolm wouldn’t like it here, thought Arabella
idly, staring around the room, and then looking out
the window at the harbor. A small sloop, under
power, its sail furled, was making its way slowly
along the mole out to the open water of the IJssel-
meer. Its helmsman, a pipe in his mouth, was slumped
comfortably in the cockpit, One CONTINUED ON PAGE 64

“We're drifters, you and I,” he said slowly. ‘And each of us
is about to drift out of the other’s life and into the wrong life.”

ILLUSTRATED BY JAY MAISEL

Do you need romantic advice? Are you puzzled?
Bewildered? Perplexed? Bring me your little prob-
lems. Don’t be embarrassed. There is no problem
so simple that I can’t make it complicated.

Q. How can I be sure of marrying the right man?
A. Bless your heart, dear, you can’t. Marrying a
man is like having your hair cut short. You won’t
know whether it suits you until it’s too late to
change your mind.

Q. Don’t you think it’s terrible the way some peo-
ple marry perfect strangers?

A. There’s nothing wrong with marrying a perfect
stranger. It’s imperfect strangers that cause such
nasty shocks.

Q. What qualities do you consider important in a
marriage partner?

A. Strength of character, good looks, a sense of
humor, a pleasant disposition, financial security,
good family background, intelligence, sensitivity,
emotional maturity and a sparkling personality.

Q. Gee, I don’t know anybody like that.
A. Me either.

Q. Then you think a girl should settle for less than
her ideal man?

A. Ask yourself this: If you did find an ideal man,
would he marry you?

Q. My boyfriend says he fell in love with me at first
sight, but he can’t analyze his reasons. Can you?
A. Not exactly, but I suppose they’re like his rea-
sons for ordering the sirloin tips on the business-
men’s lunch. It just happened to appeal to him.

Q. But he proposed to me the first night we met,
without knowing anything about me. I can’t un-
derstand that.

A. Neither can I, but males are baffling creatures.
A man will spend months of research before decid-
ing which kind of car to buy, but he’ll select the
mother of his children without even kicking the
tires, so to speak.

Q. What do you mean by that?

A. I certainly don’t mean what I think you think I
mean. Shame on you! All I’m saying is that a man
should at least find out the name, age and cereal
preference of the woman with whom he’II be eating
breakfast for the next thirty years or so.

Q. I am an eighteen-year-old girl with a 36-23-34
figure, and my hair is naturally curly. My problem
is that these three boys want to marry me, and I
don’t know which to choose. Percy is tall and good-
looking and a smooth dancer, but he can’t seem to
hold a job. Ken has gobs of money and a white
sports car, but he’s two inches shorter than I.
Jack is the one my mother wants me to marry be-
cause he’s older and well established, but our
horoscopes conflict. Which boy should I marry?

A. If I were you, I wouldn’t marry any boy who’d

larry a girl as silly as you.

By JANE GOODSELL

Q. Do you believe in love?

A. I think love is wonderful,
amazing, miraculous, sublime
and the cat’s pajamas. But what
is it? It’sa whole lot harder to di-
agnose than mononucleosis.

Q. If two people enjoy doing the same things, isn’t
that a good foundation for marriage?

A. What things? Dancing divinely together?
Walking in the rain? Sharing a passion for pep-
peroni pizza? None of these activities will occupy
much of your time when you’re married. Now, if
you can paint a garage divinely together or weed a
garden in perfect unison, you might have the
makings of a good marriage.

Q. I am a girl of 23, and frankly I’m worried. I’ve
never met anybody I want to marry. How can
some girls fall in love with such impossible men?

A. Because men are the only other sex there is.

Q. Am I correct in assuming that you believe in a
long courtship?

A. I never said any such thing!

Q. You did too! You said that people should know
something about each other before they get mar-
ried.

A. Did I say that? Well, I take it back. I haven’t
any opinion on the subject. I know a couple who
rushed off to a justice of the peace the moment
they discovered they both got goose pimples when
they heard Ella Fitzgerald’s recording of I’ve
Got You Under My Skin. They’d known each
other barely six hours. Last week they celebrated
their fifteenth wedding anniversary, and they still
hold hands at the movies. I know another couple
who went together three years before getting mar-
ried. They were ideally suited in every way. Even
their mothers liked each other. Yet barely a month
after the honeymoon they were consulting a mar-
riage counselor.

Q. Then you don’t think it’s important to marry
somebody with whom you have things in common ?
A. Not especially. Once you get married, you'll
have plenty of things in common: the car keys, a
joint income-tax return, leaky faucets, mono-
grammed towels, the morning paper, the leftover
meat loaf in the refrigerator and a dog that needs
to be taken for a walk.

Q. Didn’t you and your husband have anything in
common when you got married?

A. Yes. We both liked to read an obscure poet
whom practically nobody else had ever heard of. I
can’t remember his name.

Q. Don’t you think it’s romantic to be a young
man’s first love?

A. It’s a lot safer to be his last love.

.What about the sex problem in*marriage?
A. Sex isn’t a problem. Sex is—well, it’s sex.

11961 BY JANE GOODSELL

Q. Do you believe in marriage manuals?

A. I don’t believe in any kind of manuals. All
books that contain directions of the Step 8 (see
Fig. 8) type make me nervous. The two most help-
ful books in marriage are a cookbook and a check-
book.

Q. Don’t you believe that an unsuccessful sexual
adjustment can ruin a marriage?

A. Lots of things can ruin a marriage, and sex is
one of them.

Q. What are the other things?

A. Reading in bed. If one person can’t sleep with
the light on, and the other can’t go to sleep with-
out finding out why the inspector said “Aha!”
when he noticed that the corpse had a shirt button
missing, there’s trouble ahead. The daily paper can
ruin a marriage. Some men can live with a woman
who cuts out recipes, and some can’t. Food can
wreck a marriage. If a corned-beef-and-cabbage
man marries a woman who feeds him creamed tuna
and stuffed-prune salad, he’s likely to go home
to mother. Metabolism can cause trouble. If a wife
wakes up wide awake, and her husband wakes up
still asleep, mornings around their house will be
pretty awful. These things cause more marital fric-
tion than infidelity. Now will you stop pestering
me about sex?

Q. I am a girl of seventeen who’s madly in love
with a boy of eighteen. Our parents think we’re
too young and too poor to get married. I don’t

think money is important when two people love |

each other. Don’t you agree?

A. Yes and no. Money isn’t important as long as
you have enough of it.

Q. What do you mean by enough?

A. That’s hard to say. Another woman’s mink can
make you feel awfully poor.

Q. Do you think it’s possible to reform a man?

A. It’s possible. The odds are about equal to your
chances of finding a pearl in an oyster.

Q. Don’t you think that successful marriage is
based on mutual compromise?

A. Yes. I'll tell you how it works. You both want
to go to a movie, but he wants to see The Guns of
Navarone and you're dying to see Fanny. So you
compromise by going to a Russian movie with
English subtitles, which neither of you wants to see.

Q. Whatever happened to sentimental love? Peo-
ple aren’t as romantic as they used to be.

A. People never were as romantic as they used to
be. You’ve been reading love stories, haven’t you?
If Romeo and Juliet had lived to celebrate their first
anniversary, they’d have had their differences too.

Q.What is your definition of an ideal marriage?
A. An ideal marriage is when—I mean it’s one in
which two people love, cherish and encourage each
other through all the troubles caused by their
marriage.

=. %

nn ad ee oe SS eee ee

Personality Rooms In New York

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By CYNTHIA KELLOGG wrerior pecoration epiror Remember “‘. luntie Mame’ and her fondness for spectacular decorating

schemes? She inherited this taste from her creator, Patrick Dennis, author of ‘Little Me,” who supervises th decorating
projects in his own home. To accommodate the family heirlooms, he had the one-story living room in his town house en-
larged into a dramatic two-story one. Iis Second Empire style harmonizes with the piano, chairs, and a pair of urns on
the mantel, all part of a thirty-six-piece set of furnishings ordered in Paris in 1860 by one of Mrs. Dennis’s forebears.

Mr. & Mrs. Patrick Dennis

SSS RS ae ee are
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eer cele

ves on in the brownstone parlor of architect Edward Durell Stone, who designed,
Art, the American Pavilion at the 1958 Wor
Delhi, India. Stone preserved the 1875 mahogany paneling and restored
es, crystal lighting
which Mrs. Stone

Family s varied tastes

7’ ~ . 77 7 - -
d’s Fair in Brusse lS,
jixtures and Victorian chairs. New notes are a

7 7 = "T° 1. = L7 ~~
made the mosaic top. The end tables are brass

are modern sculpture and ancient Oriental art.

LS: |

OLUTIC

The prettiest rehearsal room in New York is an enclosed terrace in the penthouse home of musical-comedy actress Mary
Martin and her producer husband, Richard Halliday. Inspired by a breathtaking view of Manhattan and the East River,
Miss Martin practices her enchanting songs with the help of a tiny piano, just out of sight at the left. Striped ticking
slipcovers, finished with lots of ball fringe, create a feminine, countrified setting that seems miles* away from the bus-
tling city below. The color scheme combines Miss Martin’s favorites: blues, in fabric, vinyl floor and decorative objects ;
greens, in plants that thrive behind the glass walls. Practical notes are white glass tops placed on the coffee and end tables.

Mary Martin & Richard Halliday

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By H. T. WILLIAMS, DESIGNER
America is color-conscious. Nowhere is this more apparent than in
the dramatic decorating schemes now sweeping the country. One
vivid pattern, perhaps a dazzling accent rug or a gay fabric on up-
holstered chairs, can set the exciting color pace in a room. y& The
favorite color schemes of the thousands of visitors to New York’s
National Design Center, where 200 manufacturers of luxury furnish-
ings show their wares, are blue laced with green and purple; yellow
spiced with orange and red. The most popular furnishings at the
center represent a tasteful wedding of traditional and modern
styles. y& The rooms shown here and on the following pages are the
Journal's interpretation of these important decorating trends. The
rooms indicate that, whatever your budget, you can bring the “‘news’’
into your home, for they show the latest designs in furniture, floor
coverings and fabrics, available across the country at all price levels.
% The favorite floor coverings offer you a range from the spectacu-
larly ornamental rugs and viny] tile to plain, but rich, carpet in multi-
color tweeds. The popular wall coverings—gay papers, vinyl or glass-
fiber sheeting that imitates fabric, brilliant paint—could brighten
one wall or a corner in your room. 4% The current furniture crop is a
decorator’s dream—so many styles are available-that you, as the
decorator, can easily suit your special tastes and needs. Traditional
styles are the most popular and the favorite way to use them is to
mix them with modern designs. As shown in the Journal rooms, you

The Journal’s beautiful “blue room” might be the color scheme of a
Matisse painting come to life. It takes its color cue from the jewel tones
of the area rug, with the individual colors repeated in upholstered pieces.
Favorite ideas illustrated here are ornamental architectural details—a
Sireplace with a flue faced in mosaic and a wall covered in zebra-wood
paneling that is actually a fabric-backed veneer to apply to a wall like
paper. The curio cabinet, which is popular today for displaying collec-
tions of art objects and books, is represented by a matched pair of walnut
cupboards with “chicken wire” doors. Accessories stand out importantly —
a brass dictionary stand, lamp bases with gilded metal flowers, a pair
of paintings behind them, an antique barometer. This room, from New
York’s National Design Center, is on view at the center for one month.

The Rooms America Loves

xk *

could combine imaginatively, lushly comfortable upholstered
sofas and chairs with classically simple modern desks, tables,
storage pieces, making a place for music with a handsome
record player or piano. ¥* The most popular accessories look
important. You can use many together—ornate lamp bases,
copies of sculpture, paintings. Arrange objects, with favorite
books, on the shelves in bookcases or room dividers for touches
that reflect your personality.

The Journal’s “yellow room,”’ decorated with new furniture from

stores, fits in a small, stylish piano and screens the dining area
(above) with a divider to show off books and bibelots. A washable
glass-fiber wall covering repeats the accent color in main living
area (right). The practical vinyl floor is a major decoration. The
streamlined dining furniture, with its graceful oval table, was

chosen with an eye to durability as well as limitation of budget.

Right: As bright as a Van Gogh picture, this popular scheme is
carried out with a tweedy rug, richly upholstered sofa-bed, arm-
chairs covered in a splashy floral, glass-fiber draperies with a
filigree design. The high-backed chair with an ottoman makes a
bold accent. A stereo cabinet is the sofa end table. For a list of

lores displaying adaptations of this “Yellow Room,” see page 64.

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60
EATING IN NEW YORK IS AN ADVENTURE

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 43

CHICKEN GRAVY:

6 tablespoons 3 cups chicken

plains, ‘“‘we do get people here from
all over the world.” 5

Melt butter in a saucepan; stir in the
flour and add the milk and cream a

chicken fat or broth Leon Lianides places moussaka, a __ little at a time, stirring constantly.

butter Salt to taste food of many flavors, many textures, Cook and stir over medium heat un-

6 tablespoons (remembering in its perfect menu setting: til thickened and smooth. Mix in

oF flour the ham is very Q seasonings. Add sauce to eggs, beat-
TOP OF THE SIX’S salty) Fresh Mushrooms a la Grecque ing well, and return mixture to

FOR CORDIALITY

One of New York’s loftiest restau-
rants, TOP OF THE SIX’S (666
Fifth Avenue) offers a dazzling sky-

Heat chicken fat or butter in a
saucepan. Stir in the flour and add
chicken broth gradually, stirring con-
stantly. Cook and stir over medium

(marinated in herbs and oil,
served cold)

Moussaka

Fresh Garden Mixed Salad with
Coach House Dressing

saucepan. Cook and stir over very
low heat until mixture is very thick.
Do not allow to boil. Cool a little.

To assemble moussaka:

; heat until smooth and_ thickened, Hy QM e911 : +
line view by day or night. Opened in : Crackers and Cheese ESE” WEISS ENN i
with no taste of flour. Add salt 1
1959 by the Stouffer Corporation, it ; casserole. Arrange half the eggplant
features a moderately priced cuisine FRIED CHICKEN PARTS: MOUSSAKA ae pre Bettons oe Dam Spread aoe
which manager E. L. Lamb calls poundeibreiline uikeeenstichelyy 2 < . lling on top Gan ed with re-
“American with a French accent.” ae ' en A most delicious dish, made with ™aining eggplant. Pour bechamel
r ® THE SIX’S serves three eres tt ae sliced eggplant, ground meat skill- Sauce on top, spread to cover egg-
TOP OF THE SIX'S se (breasts, legs V6 cup milk ; 1 inkl i
er eens a S, 7/2 Cul fully spiced, topped with a light plant. Sprinkle with Parmesan.
meals a day (except Sunday) o and thighs) V4 teaspoon salt , Bake 4 A ace
reservations-only basis: lunch, din- = Fi erie yeas béchamel sauce, dusted with Par- Bee Oe OS ans a cae
ner and late supper (10 P.M. to 1 A.M.). a na ie mesan cheese and baked to a delicate ene ie Tan SPO
All dishes, including specialties like are golden color. This dish must be pre- uo € ee urface is faintly golden and
Plantation Fried Chicken with Vit- wipe chicken parts with a wetclothiy Gon ees i. as oe aoa a oe
ginia Ham, are prepared by women and then dry very thoroughly. .Mix before you wish to serve it. Reheat ee aya a ae
trained to reproduce recipes created egg, milk and salt. Dip anichenipatts in individual portions. Cea nee ene ees
by company home economists. Décor into ere cnet a dpainioh excess for 8 hours. Cut into 9 squares and
“ : Mil . : See To prepare eggplant: use a broad spatula to transfer each
is French Provincial (Watteaux hang Roll in bread crumbs to coat lightly. : - :
: is set aid d : 1 eggplant 3-4 tablespoons piece to a shallow baking pan, which
in the gallery), but its understate Let stand 30 minutes to dry. Then bias, besa cna ose
elegance makes you feel at home. fry in deep fat or in shallow fat in an Salt butter or ieee 8 b ee = ae eee
Although 1700 dine here evcey electric frypan, 375° F., until golden. cockineot slow oven S50 E for ae ie a
day, TOP OF THE SIX’S extends — Remove and drain on paper toweling. | Wipe plant with a damp cloth. Cut utes. Makes 9 ae
to each its own brand of graciousness. = poyr chicken gravy into a 3-quart off stem, then slice into rounds 14”
E. L. Lamb nS surround shallow casserole or baking pan. Ar- thick. Salt each round lightly and
crispy-creamy Plantation Fried range chicken on top. Cover loosely. stack in a colander. Put a plate or
Chicken and Virginia Ham with color — Bake in a moderate oven, 350° F., aluminum foil on top of eggplant and
and flavor contrasts to make the — fo, about 1 hour. Remove cover for weight down. Let stand 2-3 hours to 2
meal memorable: last 10 minutes of baking, to crisp extract liquid. Then rinse each piece V,
crust. To serve: Place thinly carved under cold running water and dry
| Hot eae Balle en Brochette slices of Virginia ham on a platter thoroughly on paper toweling. Heat
Plantation Fried Chicken and arrange chicken, with its gravy, a little butter or oil in a large heavy CHAUVERON
with Virginia Ham on the ham. Garnish with crisp water skillet and brown the slices, a few at FOR GOURMETS
| Vegetables of the Day cress and a glazed peach half. a time. Drain on paper toweling. Add
I Tossed Salad with White French SE ee eee If you’ve a fondness for French
Dressing (a boiled dressing) Cees ; cuisine, reserve a table for a luxurious
Chocolate Soufflé 3 oe lunch or dinner at CAFE CHAU-
| i Ait Hae i , ” VERON (139 East 53rd Street).
° Lee ADISSP OOM Opened in 1957 by M. Roger Chau-
PLANTATION FRIED V, butter or Witte Wineedk veron, whose French restaurateur
| CHICKEN WITH VIRGINIA HAM ea oe heritage dates to the seventeenth
VIRGINIA BAKED HAM: Sucae 1 oa es Ee ae 4 century, this small restaurant is the
| Meas THE COACH HOUSE pee talk and toast of gourmets. Its décor,
1 Virginia-cured —_1 teaspoon dry FOR AMERICANA chopped tablespoons Seen
ham mustard 1 el ee with red carpets and white walls form-
2 cups apple cider 2-3 tablespoons cate Aner ee bay ing a backdrop for Parisian tableaux,
I 1 pound dark cider (or Though just eleven years old, THE i was designed by M. Chauveron. In ~
i and crushed leaf, crumbled the teh dowed for all-t
i brown sugar sherry) COACH HOUSE (110 Waverly 34 pound ground 1 tablespoon Ceara OCs Or gare nae :
i : 74 P one dozen chefs create Provincial
} Place) occupies the ground floor and leanbeet chopped Sees wee te :
| Soak ham in cold water to cover for hayloft of the old Wanamaker Es- (round) or parsley specialties: Pate, escargots farcis, duck-
h hang ae ’ ; ling en casserole, and a chocolate
| 24 hours. Change the water twice tate’s carriage house and has the ground lean 1g teaspoon
I during this period. Drain. Placeham _ same dimly lit horse-and-buggy-days lamb Giathon mousse whose secret M. Coa
| in a large kettle. Cover with fresh charm. Its proprietor, Leon Lianides, —_ 1, 3 will swap only for “a recipe for mak-
ii : lg cup canned 34 teaspoon salt ing $1,000,000 in ten minutes.” Brush
| water and add cider and half the is an engineer turned restaurateur tomato sauce 1% teaspoon CoE ee eee eee a et aa
| brown sugar. Cover and simmer for whose feeling for food dates to his pepper up your French (the menus are en il

31% hours. Turn the ham every 30
minutes and add water so that ham
is always covered. Remove cover and
cool ham in broth for 3-4 hours. Re-
move skin and excess fat, leaving
about 14” fat layer on the ham.
Score fat with a knife in 1’ squares.
Place ham in a shallow pan. Add
ham broth to a depth of 14’. Mix re-
maining brown sugar and mustard
with cider to make a paste. Pat onto

boyhood. He lived on the Greek is-
land of Corfu, where his mother,
grandmother and aunts worked
kitchen miracles. Mr. Lianides likes
to cook, has taught the art of the
cuisine, and may be credited with
creating COACH HOUSE special-
ties. His moderately priced lunch and
dinner menus offer not only Amer-
ican favorites, including chicken
potpie and honey-dipped ham steak,

Heat butter or oil in a skillet and
sauté onion and garlic until golden.
Add meat and break up with a fork.
Stir in liquids and seasonings. Sim-
mer, uncovered, over low heat until
liquid has been absorbed.

To prepare béchamel sauce:
14 cup butter 1 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoons 14 teaspoon

frang¢ais), then prepare for an eating
adventure extraordinaire.

Roger Chauveron, by designing a ,
meal in the elegant French manner .

to enhance his savory Duckling en
Casserole, excites the adventurer, de-
lights the gourmet:

La Terrine de la Maison Truffée
Vichyssoise Chauveron

Duckling en Casserole with Peas

the fat. Bake in a moderately slow but also Continental classics like flour white pepper ‘ ;
on ¢ Baie = : cot ; Mixed Salad aux Fines Herbes
oven, 300° F., for 11% hours, basting Fish Stew Mediterranée; and from 1 cup milk Dash nutmeg ‘ ‘
| frequently. Cool !4 hour before farther East, shish kebabs and mous- ‘1 cup heavy 2 eggs, well Macédoine of Fruits
carving into very thin slices. saka “because,” Mr. Lianides ex- cream beaten CONTINUED ON PAGE 62

Great Idea: Pass the soup tray! Such an easy way to entertain—soup ’n chips. Heat up Campbell’s
Cream of Vegetable Soup, for instance. This creamy blend of vegetables tastes so good with crisp chips.
Or try Campbell’s Tomato Rice Soup. Rich and red with pieces of tomato and long-grain rice, it’s a
friendly soup with potato chips, corn chips, any kind of chips. Children’s parties, grown-up parties . . .

mid-morning snacks or good-night-caps . . . any time someone’s hungry . . . just pass the soup tray!

3 os

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 60

DUCKLING
EN CASSEROLE WITH PEAS

2 (6-lb.) ducklings 1 sprig fresh
1 teaspoon salt chervil or 1
14 cup butter teaspoon dried
16 small white chervil
onions, peeled 4 cups consommé
14 cup chopped 2 tablespoons
very lean bacon sweet butter
1 small head leaf 1-2 tablespoons

lettuce, flour
shredded fine 1 or 2 cans

1 bay leaf, (1-lb.) petite
crumbled peas, drained

1 sprig fresh parsley or
14 teaspoon dried parsley

Wash ducklings and pat dry. Rub the
outside with salt. Prick the skin well
all over. Place ducklings on a rack
in a roasting pan. Roast in a very hot
oven, 450°-475° F., for about 1 hour,
pricking the skin frequently with a
sharp fork to make sure all the fat
drains out. Pour out the fat as it ac-
cumulates in the pan or it will smoke.
Meanwhile, heat the butter in a
skillet and brown the onions slowly.
Add bacon and lettuce and stir un-
til lettuce wilts. Now add herbs and
consommé, bring to a boil, reduce
heat and simmer 2-3 minutes. Trans-
fer ducklings to a casserole, add
onions and consommé. Cover and
bake in a hot oven, 400° F., for 30-40
minutes or until ducklings and onions
are tender. Remove ducklings and
onions and keep warm. Rub sweet
butter and flour to a paste and stir
into the sauce. Add peas. Bake 10
minutes more or until sauce is
thickened slightly and peas hot. Re-
place ducklings and onions. Serve
from casserole. Makes 4-6 servings.

8
»V,

PIERRE GRILL.

FOR INTRIGUE

Beneath bustling Fifth Avenue at
6lst Street is the quiet of the
PIERRE GRILL, where curry has
been cooked and served with cere-
mony for 16 years. Chef Reaj Ali pre-
pares each—chicken, lamb or sea-
food—reverently, knowing when to
add a subtle touch or an honest
dominance. His secret: curry powder
plus cumin, coriander and cinnamon
in perfect proportion. The drama of
each curry dinner extends from crea-
tion to table-side service where East
Indians in native dress ladle steaming
portions to your plate, then add a
sprinkling of grated coconut, parsley,
thinnest orange-rind slivers, chutney.
Make a reservation for lunch or din-
ner (moderate to expensive), then join
the curryphiles at the PIERRE where
East meets West in the serving of
India’s traditional dish.

Emil, maitred’hotelof the PIERRE
GRILL, believes that cool-to-the-
palate foods make the best dinner
companions for spicy Lamb Curry:

Cherrystone Clams

East Indies Lamb Curry with
Condiments and Saffron Rice

Mixed Green Salad with
French Dressing

Green Mint Sherbet

EAST INDIES LAMB CURRY

2 tablespoons
curry powder
1 tablespoon

3 pounds lean
lamb shoulder
1% cup butter or

cooking oil paprika

3-4 cloves garlic, 1 teaspoon
peeled and pepper
crushed 1 teaspoon

4 onions, peeled powdered
and chopped cumin
fine 1 teaspoon

1 bay leaf, powdered
crumbled coriander

1 teaspoon 2 ripe tomatoes
cinnamon peeled, and

5-6 cloves coarsely

1 tablespoon salt chopped

1-11% cups water
(about)

Trim all fat from lamb and cut into
1” cubes. Heat butter or oil in a
3-quart kettle. Sauté garlic and
onions until golden. Add bay leaf,
cinnamon and cloves. Cover and cook
for 5 minutes. Then add meat and
cook, uncovered, over medium heat,
stirring constantly until most of the
water from the meat has steamed off,
and the liquid in the kettle thickens
slightly. Stir in the remaining ingredi-
ents, adding water barely to cover
the meat. Cover kettle and simmer
until meat is fork-tender, about 1
hour. Makes 6-8 servings. Serve with
Saffron Rice.

SAFFRON RICE

1 tablespoon
saffron

1 teaspoon salt

1 onion, peeled

1 cup cold water and finely

lg cup butter chopped

3 cups long-grain 3 cups boiling
rice water

Soak saffron in cold water for about 2
hours. Melt butter in a 3-quart ket-
tle. Stir in rice, salt, onion and then
strain in liquid from the saffron.
Cover and bake in a hot oven, 400°
F., for about 30-40 minutes or until
rice is very dry. Stir occasionally
with a fork. Add boiling water and
stir. Cover and bake for 15 minutes
more. Then remove from heat and
keep covered in a warm place. Makes
6-8 servings.

If you’re planning a New York trip—
actual or armchair, you might like a
list of Journal editors’ favorite restau-
rants. For a free copy, send a self-
addressed stamped envelope to: Miss
Jean Anderson, Ladies’ Home Journal,
1270 Avenue of the Americas, New
York 20, N.Y.

FALSE EDUCATION

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 6

breadwinners have either just been committed
to prisons or mental institutions or who
have but recently been released. The only
possession most of these families have is
children... .

“In such an environment all forms of evil
flourish—the peddling of dope, drunkenness,
disease, accidents, truancies, physical, mental
and moral handicaps, sex perversions involv-
ing children. ...

“These problems directly affect the child’s
health, attendance, emotional and personal
adjustment, his learning and his progress (or
lack of it) in every respect. In all probability
at least one half of our children will be school
dropouts.”

“ According to a special study, in a slum sec-
tion composed almost entirely of Negroes in
one of our largest cities a total of 59 per cent
of the male youth between the ages of sixteen
and twenty-one were out of school and un-
employed. They were roaming the streets. Of
the boys who graduated from high school, 48
per cent were unemployed in contrast to 63
per cent of the boys who had dropped out of
school. In short, two thirds of the male drop-
outs did not have jobs and about half of the
high-school graduates did not have jobs. In
such a situation, the pupil may ask, “Why
bother to stay in school when graduation for
half the boys opens onto a dead-end street?”

A youth who has dropped out of school and
never has had a full-time job is not likely to
become a constructive citizen of his com-
munity. Quite the contrary. As a frustrated
individual he is likely to be antisocial and
rebellious, and may well become a juvenile
delinquent.

The adverse influence of the street is largely
a consequence of gangs of such youths,
out of school and unemployed.| I doubt
if anyone familiar with slums would deny
that if all the male youth by some miracle
were to find employment the social climate
would change dramatically for the better.

Boys brought up in slum neighborhoods
are conditioned to street life with all that this
life implies. Out of work and out of school
once they turn sixteen, these youths behave in
ways that may have serious political conse-
quences; similar behavior of youth in small
cities would be far less serious. It is a matter
of geography in the last analysis. Three fac-
tors are significant: first, group size (the larger
the group, the more dangerous); second, the
density of the population (the number of
frustrated youths per block); third, the isola-
tion of the inhabitants from other kinds of
people and other sorts of streets and houses.

le building up of a mass of unemployed
and frustrated Negro youth in congested areas
of a city is a social phenomenon that may be
compared to the piling up of inflammable ma-
terial in an empty building in a city block.
Potentialities for trouble—indeed, possibilities
of disaster—are surely there. From my study
of the special educational problems facing
school boards, administrators and teachers in
the big central cities of our largest metropoli-
tan areas—especially New. York, Chicago,
Detroit, Philadelphia and St. Louis—I am
convinced we are allowing social dynamite to
accumulate. In some slum neighborhoods over
a half of the boys between sixteen and twenty-
one are out of school and out of work. They
are roaming the streets.

Many of these live in areas now designated
as “culturally deprived”’ or ‘‘culturally differ-
ent,’ but in my youth they would have been
more simply designated as “‘slums.”’ In partic-
ular one finds large Negro neighborhoods and
often somewhat smaller areas made up entirely
of Negro slums. One gets just so far with a
discussion of the urban problem and unem-
ployment and then runs into a set of road-
blocks set up by the leaders of the Negro
communities and their friends. It is considered
illiberal, if not reactionary, to use the phrase
“Negro slum.”’ Indeed, it is difficult if not im-
possible to get statistics about school enroll-
ment and employment in terms of the cate-
gories ‘‘white” and ‘“‘Negro.” I understand the
reasons for the erection of this roadblock, but
I suggest that in the interest of the Negroes

themselves it is time to remove it. The urban
problem is in part a Negro problem. We do
not facilitate its solution by trying to find
phrases to hide this fact. How can we improve
a situation if we are deprived by terminology
from knowing what the situation really is?

In some of the schools in the slums, one
finds today an incredibly large percentage of
pupils who may be properly designated as slow
and very slow learners. For the many slow
learners, it may actually be worse to stay in
school and endure constant academic frustra-
tion than to leave school and to find a satisfy-
ing job, if such a job can be found. Boys in this
group have much more difficulty finding a job
than girls. Iam not impressed by the holding
power of a school as a criterion of its quality,
but neither am I impressed by the argument
that a boy who fails to get along in school,
ought to drop out. It all depends. The situatior#. |
in which a boy drops out of school only to |

roam the streets is quite different from the

situation in which a boy drops out and finds —
satisfactory employment.

ey the slum school, the development of
reading skill is obviously of first importance.
The earlier the slow readers are spotted and
remedial measures instituted, the better. In

spite of the Herculean efforts which are being |

made, there are many ninth-grade students in
certain large city schools—in some as many as
a half—who are reading at a sixth-grade level
or lower. Because of the high family mobility,
very few of these youth have had the advan-
tage of the special attention given to reading in
the lower grades in the same city. In one school
I visited, the teachers felt that the only way to
improve the reading of the children in the first
three or four grades was to do something with
their mothers. One of the troubles is that when
the children leave the school they never see any-
one read anything—not even newspapers.

In St. Louis, school administrators feel that
pupils with reading difficulties ought to be
caught early, certainly prior to the fourth
grade. In the first three grades learning to read
is perhaps the major occupation of the pupil.
Commencing in about Grade 4, reading be-
comes a tool for learning. Consequently pupils
who have not sufficiently mastered reading
skills have ever-increasing difficulty with text-
books in different subject areas. In 1953, the
St. Louis elementary schools organized special

groups called ““Rooms of Twenty.”’ In these |
groups were placed third-grade pupils who |

showed that they would have difficulty in the

fourth grade. Especially competent teachers §} %

were assigned to these rooms and were given a
free hand to develop skills in reading, spelling,

oral and WE: language, handwriting and —

arithmetic. Studiés show substantial progress,
and, more important, pupils in these special
classes more than hold their own in later
schoolwork after a maximum of one year in
the special class.

For those whose reading difficulties are even
more acute in Grades 4 through 6, there are
five reading clinics in the city. I was highly im-
pressed with what I saw in these reading clinics.
The administrators of the program believe that
even the slowest readers, leaving aside the
mentally retarded, can be brought up to at
least the sixth-grade level. This means the

ability to read with comprehension the front |

page of a néwspaper, or, more specifically, the
Gettysburg Addréss, at the rate of about 200

words a minute. 5
In some Northern cities, political leaders |

have attempted to put pressure on the school

authorities to have Negro children attend es- i

sentially white schools. In my judgment the

cities in which the authorities have yielded to *

this pressure are on the wrong track. Those —
which have not done so are more likely to -
make progress in improving Negro education.
It is my belief that satisfactory education can
be provided in an all-Negro school through the
expenditure of more money for needed staff
and facilities. Moreover, I believe that any
sense of inferiority among the pupils caused by
the absence of white children can be largely if
not wholly eliminated in two ways: first, in all
cities there will be at least some schools that
are in fact mixed because of the nature of the
neighborhood they serve; second, throughout
the city there ought to be an integrated staff of
white and Negro teachers and administrators.

ee ee

/ bit

wi
Dit
0h,

To insist that such solutions cannot be ac-
zeptable and to assume instead that the school-
jing of Negroes can be satisfactory only if in
2ach schoolroom there are present some white
children is to take an extremely defeatist view
‘of Negro education in the large cities. The
|oroposal to move any appreciable number of
white children by bus into what are now Negro
schools or to move all the Negro children in a
Negro neighborhood into what are now white
|schools presents a transportation problem that
| s quite insoluble. An examination of the ge-
ygraphy of the Negro and white sections of the
arge cities makes this evident. If some children
lire to be transported, the question arises
which children and how many. I am not dis-
cussing here what seems to me to be a separate
juestion; namely, the crossing of school-at-
lendance lines when -waves of population
/novement create overcrowded conditions in
yne attendance area and vacancies in another.
Nor am I justifying the gerrymandering of
ittendance lines; such a procedure amounts to

JAMES
BRYANT
CONANT

This author’s crusades for educational

reform have added to his reputation as a
distinguished educator. For twenty
years president of Harvard, Dr. Conant
served as high commissioner for and
ambassador to West Germany from 1953
to 1957. Upon his return he accepted a
Carnegie Foundation grant to make an
extensive evaluation of American high
schools. “‘False Education for Many
Slum Children?” (page 6) is an excerpt
from Slums and Suburbs, the third book
to result from his continuing study.

eparating pupils so/e/y on the basis of race
)nd is the equivalent of the de jure segregation
lejected in the Supreme €ourt decisions of
954,and 1955.

I know the argument is being made that
| rossing attendance lines should be permissive
nd without cost to the city and that the re-
sal of this right is a psychological blow to the
ride of the members of the Negro race. But
je reason for demanding such a privilege is
Hie allegation that education in an all-Negro
shool to which pupils are not assigned solely
/n account of race is inherently inferior. Once
nis allegation is granted, the foundation for
inproving Negro education in the large cities
» undermined. Since I believe the evidence in-
icates that it is the socioeconomic situation,
‘ot the color of the children, which makes the
{egro slum schools so difficult, the real issue

not racial integration but socioeconomic
tegration.

Put another way, if there is no inherent dif-
rence in potential ability, and if educational
/Pportunity is equal, the poor achievement of
ne children in both the Negro and the white
ums which I described earlier may be ascribed
» their depressing cultural and socioeconomic
vackgrounds. One might argue, therefore, that
‘slum schools ought to be integrated with
shools in economically favored areas. If the
‘ody politic through its school board once sets
put on a course of neighborhood desegrega-
on, a good case can be made for transporting

white children from slum schools to schools in
high-income residential districts and vice versa.

Much as I admire the comprehensive high
school in the town with one high school and
see it as an instrument of democracy, it seems
impossible for school authorities in a large city
to create artificially a series of such schools. If
a policy were to be adopted that, as an ideal,
every neighborhood school should have a
widely heterogeneous school population rep-
resented by all socioeconomic backgrounds,
school administrators would be forced to move
children about as though they were pawns ona
chessboard.

Antithetical to our free society as I believe
de jure segregation to be, I think it would be
far better for those who are agitating for the
deliberate mixing of children to accept de facto
segregated schools as a consequence of a pres-
ent housing situation and to work for the im-
provement of slum schools whether Negro or
white. The problems in these schools are far
more difficult to solve than in other schools;
larger and better staffs should be available,
more money is required. It is my firm belief
that actions based on the premises I have out-
lined are in the best interests of the Negro and
of the nation. Through the existence of at least
some mixed schools, integrated teaching staffs
and increased expenditures in slum schools, I
Suggest that the education of Negroes in
Northern cities can be made satisfactory and
their status improved

Ane necessary step in upgrading the
status of the Negro in the North is to take
drastic measures to eliminate racial discrimi-
nation by labor unions and employers. Racial
discrimination makes unemployment chronic
for the Negro male, North and South. Racial
discrimination on the part of employers and
labor unions is certainly one factor which
leads to the existence of so many male Negro
floaters. What is almost terrifying is that the
number of male youth in this category is in-
creasing almost daily. Federal funds are neces-
sary to Open up employment on a nondis-
criminatory basis.

Vocational-training programs should be re-
lated to the employment opportunities in the
general locality. If high-school pupils are
aware that few, if any, graduates who have
chosen a certain vocational , sgram have ob-
tained a job as a consequence of the training,
the whole idea of relevance disappears. Voca-
tional training which holds no hope that the
skill developed will be in fact a marketable
skill becomes just another school “chore” for
those whose interest in their studies has begun
to falter.

It is not often realized to what degree cer-
tain trades in many communities are closed
areas of employment, except for a lucky few.
A boy cannot just say, “I want to be a
plumber,” and then, by doing good work, find
a job. It is far more difficult in many com-
munities to obtain admission to an apprentice
program which involves union approval than
to get into the most selective medical school in
the nation. One vocational instructor in a city
vocational school, speaking of his course in a
certain field, said he had no difficulty placing
students in jobs outside the city. In the city, he
said, the waiting list for those who want to
join the union is so long that unless a boy has
an inside track he can’t get in. In another city,
I was talking to an instructor about a boy who
in the twelfth grade was doing special work.
“‘What does he have in mind to do when he
graduates?” “Oh, he’ll be a plumber,” came
the answer. “But isn’t it almost impossible to
get into the union?” I asked. ““He’ll have no
difficulty,’ I was told. ““He has very good
connections.”

To improve the work of the slum schools
requires an improvement in the lives of the
families who inhabit the slums, but without a
drastic change in the employment prospects
for urban Negro youth, relatively little can
be accomplished. Our large city educational
problems must be analyzed in far more de-
tail than in the past and with a far greater
degree of frankness. Neighborhood by neigh-
borhood we need to know the facts; and when
these facts indicate a dangerous social situa-
tion the American people should be prepared
to take prompt action before it is too late.

END

breakfast so sod, you'll eat it the night before!

LLL. ae eee —eeeEeEeEeEeEeEeeEeSeeEOEeEeeeeeeeeeEeEeEeEEeEeEEE ee

Bacon Logs are as easy as rolling off a you-know-
what to fix. Just cut French Toast into strips—
and in between them, and on top, place sizzly
slices of Armour Star Bacon. Then—pass the
Log Cabin Syrup that adds the crowning glory.

Armour Star Bacon: Only ove out of
3 bacon sides rates the Armour Star. And
of that prize side, 25% is carefully
trimmed away. Only the meaty center-
cut is quite good enough for Armour
Star—the bacon the butcher brings home.

Log Cabin: Open it. Tip it. Watch it
pour —slow, shining, mellow. This is the
syrup with the real maple flavor. It is the
final, topping touch that makes a Bacon
Log be moist and sweet with goodness
that makes it be a Bacon Log, in fact

As,
7

METROPOLITAN LIFE

A MUTUAL COMPANY «+
Head OfficoOTTAWA—S

Here’s a suggestion that could make your next
health examination the most complete one your
physician has ever given you.

Your doctor, of course, has many diagnostic

instruments and laboratory tests by which he can
check the state of your physical health. But he has
no way at all of knowing what’s on your mind or
what is bothering you—unless you tell him.
A frank talk about any worries, pressures, fears or
frustrations—no matter how trivial they may seem
to you—can be as important in an appraisal of
your health as anything your doctor may detect
with instruments or tests.

That’s because emotions that are “bottled up
account for many physical complaints—including
headache, backache, digestive troubles and cer-
tain disorders of the heart.

So, whenever you have a check-up, be sure you

tell your doctor about any situations you may be
up against—at home or at work—that keep you
worried, tense or anxious. He will welcome your
frankness in discussing such problems. The more
you tell him about yourself as a person, the more
he can do for you as a patient.
Putting together the results of the tests he makes,
his findings as he examines you—and what you tell
him—your doctor gains a unique understanding of
you as an individual whose physical make-up and
reactions, whose personal problems are never quite
like anyone else’s. And this knowledge of you as a
person deepens with each check-up you have.

Then, too, these check-ups give your doctor a

chance to uncover early signs of some illnesses—
often before there are symptoms—and while possi-
bilities for successful treatment are best.
Are you in the habit of having regular health exam-
inations? There’s no safeguard you can take that’s
more important to your physical and emotional
health—now and in the future.

”

INSURANCE COMPANY

Home Office NEV, r AN FRANCISCO—S 1901

..AND EVERYTHING ELSE THATS IMPORTANT

NEVER IN NEW YORK

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 50

casual hand on the tiller. He was an old man,
and he looked supremely content with every-
thing—his pipe, his boat, his harbor.

Malcolm would say these people needed shak-
ing up, thought Arabella, amused at the
thought that anybody could imagine that old
fisherman needed anything at all, and then
slightly appalled at herself, for Malcolm was,
after all, her fiancé, and it was hardly right to
be amused at his set and proper ways.

Malcolm would say a town like this needed
modernization, needed a few people with some
gumption, went on the little voice in Arabella’s
head, mocking the humorless young man who
sat in an air-conditioned office high in Radio
City, bossing a select group of equally young
men in very conservative suits. Malcolm was
a consulting engineer, extremely well paid,
and as predictable as a sundial.

Well, so much for Malcolm for now, Arabella
heard the wicked voice say.

Arabella! she said to herself reprovingly,
and ordered another genever from the bar-
tender, who smiled at her like Father Christ-
mas as he brought it.

Arabella and Lily had been in Holland for
almost a month. Their freighter had landed
them at Amsterdam, and after a few days in
that lovely city they had set off across the
countryside in their rented English car, going
where they chose, bound by no schedules.

“I find the whole idea of this trip rather
ridiculous,’ Malcolm had said, a couple of
days before they left New York. ““Why you
take a freighter, when there are planes; why
you insist on charging off into the unknown
when you get to Amsterdam, instead of mak-
ing a regular set of hotel reservations; why
you chose Holland at all, instead of the south
of France, or Rome ——”

“Tm going to love Holland,”
stubbornly.

“It isn’t as if you had to go by freighter,”
said Malcolm. “It’s not as if you were poor.”

“What on earth does money have to do
with it?”’ asked Arabella, genuinely surprised.

““Money is very important,” said Malcolm
solemnly. ““And so are the appearances it
helps you keep up. Never forget that.”

“Yes, dear,’ said Arabella, kissing him on
the cheek. He smelled faintly of bay rum, and
his eyeglasses were polished to a high glitter.

“I know this is going to be quite a lark for
you and Lily, but don’t stay completely out of
touch.”

“You write me lots of nice long letters,”
said Arabella. ““American Express in Am-
sterdam will know where to send them.”

“And you'll surely be back by the end of
June?”

“How could I not be?” Their marriage had
been set for the end of July, and she would
need at least a month for everything.

‘“‘Be sure to boil all your water,’ said Mal-
colm.

“Yes, dear,” said Arabella. ““And I won’t
take any candy from strangers.”

“T should say not,’ said Malcolm.

So far Arabella had not boiled any water.

said Arabella

Liy came into the lounge bar as if she were
plunging into surf. “This is a darling town,”
she said. ““And the two most enchanting men
just went into that little room over there.”
She pointed to the door to the billiard room.

“You see enchanting men the way some
people see spots,” said Arabella. “In front of
your eyes, all the time, everywhere you go.”

““You’re just saying that because it’s true,”
said Lily. ““What’s that you’re having?”

““Genever.”

“Chalk dust,” said Lily scornfully. “I’m
not going to sit here and drink chalk dust.
I’m going to watch those two play billiards.”

“Billiards?” said Arabella. “I know lots
about billiards.”

“Then come on,”
waiting for?”

“Malcolm wouldn’t like it,’’ said Arabella.

“IT don’t think even Malcolm could object
to your kibitzing a small billiard game,”’ said
Lily. “It’s not as if we were sitting at some
sidewalk café with roses in our teeth, winking
at everybody.”

“All right,” laughed Arabella.

said Lily. ““What are we

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL ]}

They walked across the lobby and down the -
short corridor to the billiard room. The two }
men, engrossed in their game, did not look up. —

The older one, in his late twenties, was per-
haps six feet tall, with a lean, aquiline face.
His companion, a few years younger, was
short and round-faced and cheerful-looking.
Both of them were wearing good sports jack-
ets and slacks. Their faces were burned the
same shade of copper.

“You take Gregory Peck,”’ whispered Lily. -

“Tl settle for Humpty-Dumpty.”

“Sh-h-h,” said Arabella, blushing. ‘“They’ll .

notice you.”

“You bet they will,” said Lily.

They sat down on two of the high, armed
stools that lined the room, and watched the

white and red balls spin over the dark green
surface of the table, clicking sharply as thef ©
touched. é

Five minutes went by; the men kept their
eyes fixed on the table.

“Tm going to take drastic action,
mured Lily.

“What?” asked Arabella.

“This,” said Lily, falling gracefully off her
chair with a crash that was audible for blocks.

”

mur-

WHERE YOU CAN SEE
“THE YELLOW ROOM”

Attractive adaptation of
The Room America Loves (page 58)
will be on display this month
at the following stores:

JORDAN MARSH CO., Boston, Mass.
THE HIGBEE CoO.,
Downtown & Westgate,
Cleveland, Ohio
YOUNKERS STORE FOR HOMES,
Des Moines, Iowa
ROBINSON FURNITURE,
Detroit, Mich.
JOSKE’S, Houston, Texas
BULLOCK’S DOWNTOWN,
Los Angeles, Calif.
KUNZELMANN-ESSER
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GIMBELS, New York, N.Y.
MEIER AND FRANK CO.,
Portland, Oreg.
FAMOUS-BARR, St. Louis, Mo.
WOODWARD & LOTHROP,
Washington, D.C.-Chevy Chase, Md.

It broke up the billiard game, the ice and,

to a certain extent, Lily, who landed a lot

harder than she had planned to. The men
dropped their cues and ran to pick her up.
Humpty-Dumpty (who turned out to be Dirk

Stuss), surprisingly strong, lifted her as if she |

were a sack of feathers and popped her back
into her chair while Mr. Peck (Pieter van
Goort) fanned her briskly, and Arabella ran
out to the bar in search of some restorative
spirits.

Pieter was not too far gone in his fanning to-
notice the way she ran, and how prettily she |

bounced, this way and that, and presently he
was fanning with one hand and smoothing:
down his unruly hair with the other. When
Arabella returned with the whisky and soda
Pieter smiled at her in a very friendly, direct
manner. “So quick you are,” he said, taking
the glass to hand it to Lily.

Arabella smiled at him politely. A little vein
began to pulse in her throat.

‘“‘Have a peppermint,” said Pieter, reaching
into his pocket.

Arabella fleetingly—very fleetingly—con-
jured up the admonitory image of Malcolm.
He wagged a phantom finger at her from three
thousand miles away.

“Thank you very much,” she said, taking
the candy from the strange man. Malcolm
vanished.

“They are not like your mild American pep-
permints,”’ Pieter said. ““These have fire and
bite to them.”

“You knew I was American?”

JANUARY, 1962

“Oh, yes.’ Pieter smiled. “Dutch girls run
only with their feet. English girls run with their
feet and their shoulders, so. American girls
run with everything. A most delightful habit.”
Malcolm immediately appeared again in
Arabella’s mind, shaking his finger with re-
doubled vigor. ““Do not let this strange man
talk to you about your ‘everything, ” said
Malcolm sternly.

“Isn’t that fascinating,” said Arabella. “It
never occurred to me.”

“There is no reason why it should occur to
a girl,”’ said Pieter. “Only to the happy spec-
tator.”

“Has anybody had supper?” asked Dirk.

“Tm famished,” said Lily.

“That is easy to do something about,”” said
Dirk.

“Tf you will permit us,” said Pieter.

They permitted them, in the tall-ceilinged
dining room, where the tablecloths were
snowy, the chairs comfortably deep, the silver
heavy and the food unbelievably good, from
~ the crisp smoked eels on through the rare beef
to the cheese, creamy and yellow beneath its
shiny red rind. They found out that Pieter
was a lighting expert in Amsterdam’s flourish-
ing theatrical business, and that Dirk was in the
theater, too, as a rehearsal pianist who was in
the process of becoming a composer.

“T play tinkle-tinkle songs in expensive
theaters, and my own songs get played in
dark little cellars, but it is not really so bad,”
he said. “The people in the cellars are much
smarter, even if they don’t have any money.”

After supper, Dirk and Lily went off to the
hotel’s main lobby, from which the im-
periously gay sound of accordion music was
already floating.

“They dance and sing here every Wednes-
day night,” said Dirk. “It is one reason we
came.”

Pieter and Arabella were left alone.

“Aren't you going to finish your billiard
game?” asked Arabella.

“Dirk has other things on his mind.”

“Pl finish it with you, if you like.”

Pieter smiled tolerantly. “I never met a girl
who could play billiards,” he said.

“You've got a lot to learn,” said Arabella
“Twenty-five points, three-cushion?”

Pieter’s eyebrows went up. “You’re seri-
ous,” he said.

“I should say so,” said Arabella, with a glint
in her eye that was half fun, half stainless
steel. “Let’s go.”

“Absolutely,” said Pieter.

He watched her select a twenty-two-ounce
cue from the bin—a billiard player’s cue. She
hefted it, rolled it gently on the table to test its
straightness, and then chalked it evenly, allow-
ing herself an inward smile that was a senti-
mental salute to her father. Pieter watched
these maneuvers appreciatively

“No quarter,” he said.

“T hadn’t intended giving you any,’
Arabella.

On the few occasions When she and Malcolm
had played billiards—now and then, at a
_ party at some particularly large New York
house, they had discovered a table—he had
been easy to beat, and had become touchily
irritated at his ineptness, for Malcolm did
mot believe in being inept at anything. She
| had eventually stopped trying to play with him.

said

Peter was obviously going to be a very
different cup of tea. He played with cool,
casual recklessness and his skill was immedi-
ately apparent. He took her own skill for
granted after the first ten minutes, and they
played for a couple of hours, alone in the bil-
liard room, with the accordion music and the
laughing shouts of the dancers in the other
room a perfect counterpoint for the cathedral
hush of their own setting.

There was something almost hypnotic about
the game, as the balls traced and retraced
their pure straight paths across the velvet, and
cigarette smoke drifted up to swirl lazily under
the white lights. They talked in casual mur-
murs, sometimes almost too low to catch, and
they found out a great deal about each other.
Arabella discovered that Pieter was strangely
shy beneath a bantering exterior, that he was
essentially a lonély stranger to almost every-
one, adrift in a sea of acquaintances who
neither touched nor were touched by him. He

in turn discovered that Arabella was proud,
sentimental, stubborn, caught in an uncon-
sciously cruel family vise between a prettier
sister and a wittier one.

All this they learned while they played two
twenty-five-point games of three-cushion bil-
liards. Arabella finally put down her cue, as
Pieter ran out the last game.

“There,” he said, smiling at her. ‘““Thank
you. You're good.”

“You're very welcome,” said Arabella,
smiling back. ““You’re better.”

“You should see my father,” said Pieter.

It was as if they had been to the depths of
the sea, and had only now come back to the
firm sand of the shore. The room, and the
night itself, suddenly snapped back into focus.
They heard the clamor of the accordion,
louder than before.

“Let’s go see what everybody else is doing,”
said Pieter.

He reached out for her hand, and she gave
it to him unhesitatingly. This evoked Mal-
colm again. ‘Holding hands?” he inquired
mildly. “Js just as if he were my brother,” ex-
plained Arabella. “/ suppose it’s all right,
then,” said Malcolm.

“Come on,” said Arabella. They went hand
in hand to the music and the laughter.

ivistet that night, much later, Arabella stood
by the window of their hotel room and looked
out at the silent, moonlit harbor. Lily was tak-
ing a noisy bath, splashing and scrubbing and
singing to herself. It was a song that the ac-
cordion players had been working on for
hours, in deference to her nationality.

“You harr my sawnshine,”’ sang Lily vigor-

”

ously, “my honly sawnshine

“You'll wake everybody up,” said Arabella
over her shoulder.

“Maybe I'll wake you up, huh?” said Lily.
“Boy, were you ever lost in a dream with that
character. You should have seen your face.
Not that I blame you.”

**Nonsense,”’ said Arabella, still looking out
at the harbor.

“What were you doing all that time?”

“Playing billiards. He’s quite good.”

Lily appeared in the bathroom door,
wrapped in a giant towel, her hair every which
way, her eyes aglint.

“My guy was absolutely scrumptious on the
piano,” she said, fluffing her hair and yawn-
ing. “Come on to bed, dreamer. You don’t
want to be all sleepy-eyed in the morning.”

“I just want to watch the harbor a little
while longer,” said Arabella.

“We do have a breakfast date with Dirk
and Pieter.”

“There’s certainly no harm in eating a meal
or two with a friend,” said Arabella, partly to
Lily and partly to Malcolm.

“Whoever said there was?” said Lily.

The four of them had breakfast together, a
large, merry breakfast, and then Dirk and Lily
went off in the English car while Pieter and
Arabella strolled aimlessly around Enkhuisen,
along the waterfront to listen to the gulls
scream over the sturdy fishing boats, down
shady cobbled streets. Enkhuisen is always
full of the sound of bells, and their sweet silver
clangor heightens and enriches an atmosphere
that is already quite heady enough. It is rather
a dangerous city for two young people to
stroll through on a balmy June afternoon, par-
ticularly two young people who are engaged
to two other young people. As Arabella had
Malcolm, so Pieter had Saskia.

*‘What’s she like?’’ asked Arabella.

They were standing side by side on a granite
block at the harbor’s edge, bewitched by the
boats and the bells and the strong hot sun-
light, and by the wind coming clean and cool
off the blue water.

“Saskia?” said Pieter slowly. “She’s a
photographer’s model. Tall; not quite as tall
as you. I’ve known her since I was ten. Brown
hair, laughs a lot.”

‘Is she pretty?”

Pieter looked at her, in the eyes, and smiled
gently. “Very pretty,” he said. “Now we will
go play some more billiards.”

That day, and the days that followed, the
billiard room came to be a kind of sanctuary
for them, a cool oasis after the warmth of the
streets, a place to talk, to laugh, to sip at the
small glasses of genever that Father Christmas

brought in from time to time on his black tin
tray, smiling, crinkling his old eyes. It was
“their” room, and they guarded it against in-
vasion very successfully, haughtily staring
down the few hapless tourists who wandered
into it, and then laughing like schoolchildren
after the enemy had been routed.

At the end of the week one of Malcolm’s let-
ters arrived; it was the third one Arabella had
received. He had dictated it in his office, and it
was immaculately typed on stiff, expensive

bond paper. He hoped she was well, that she
was having a good time, that she was remem-
bering to boil her water; he himself was in
good health, and very busy with four new con-
tracts, so busy that he would have to close
now, he missed her, he would see her very
soon, love, Malcolm.

Arabella read it in her room after break-
fast, and stared at it thoughtfully for a num-
ber of seconds before slipping it back into its
envelope.

A tear rolls by her
button nose. Her eyes say,
“IT ache, Mother...” and
the world seems sad indeed.
Do you know a quick,
pleasant way to relieve this
little lady’s distress?

Relief for her can be sure and
guick, with St. Joseph Aspirin For
Children. It’s the aspirin made
especially for childhood miseries
—for the distress the hardiest
youngster feels when she has a
cold or fever.

Notice each tablet is tiny. Has
114 grains—the exact dosage
doctors favor for children. That
means you can give aspirin to
your child just as the doctor or-
ders. And in a form kids readily
accept. Youngsters don't balk at
taking St. Joseph Aspirin For
Children. They like its special
blend of pure orange flavor—
and its soft, creamy grit-free tex-
ture. And, of course, this aspirin

like a catastroph

has a safety cap that discourages
opening by children, but that
you can open easily.

Is it any wonder that doctors
prefer an aspirin that’s exactly
suited to your child’s needs? Pre-
fer it so overwhelmingly, that in
a nation-wide survey, children’s
doctors recommended this aspi-
rin 4 to 1 over any other brand!

When you go shopping be
sure to look for, and insist on, the
best—St. Joseph Aspirin For
Children. Accept no other.

WHY SHOULDN'T YOU HAVE THE BEST, T00?
For yourself, get regular 5 grain St.
Joseph Aspirin. Its Triple-Aid Action
works wonders for the relief of pain,
fever, headachy tension.

ei 2
ST. JOSEPH
* ASPIRIN *
FOR CHILDREN

1/4 ADULT DOSE
ORANGE

Flavor “QM
Se.

medically ar
irin. The firs

chil —and the
In Canada ask for S
d ph Bebetine Fe
Children.)

Quality Products of
Plough, Inc.

FIFTY YEARS AGO

IN THE JOURNAL

The sensation of January, 1912, was
the self-starter in cars, eliminating the
hand crank. New Mexico became the
forty-seventh state and movie audi-
ences sang Alexander's Ragtime Band
between films. Silk stockings were re-
placing cotton among working girls
and steel-ribbed corsets began t.) lace
in the front.

“Some states require no marriage
license and girls of thirteen can marry
with ridiculous ease,” claims Editor

Bok in the January, 1912, Journal.

“Pay for everything as you buy it,” a
financial expert advises a family with
an average income of $1200 a year. “A
telephone in the house is fatal if you
wish to economize.”’

“How can I prevent chest colds?” asks
a reader. .. . “Blow soap bubbles.”

“May I properly wear two wedding
rings? I am a widow about to be mar-
ried again,’’ says Sue. “Highly
improper.”

“How can I make my hair wavy?”
asks a reader... . ““You may dampen
your hair with quince seeds before
rolling it, but I know of no way to
make straight hair curly,” replies thé
beauty editor.

“Ts there anything quite so senseless as
a feather duster? It raises the dust
from one spot so that it may settle in
another,” believes editor Bok.

“When traveling with young children,
take along some black court plaster for
mending holes in the knees of their
black stockings.”’

“A true saying: The easygoing person
always makes the road harder for some-
one else.”

Sewing men’s shirts: ““To make a good-
fitting man’s shirt is an accomplish-
ment men appreciate as heartily as
good cooking.”

“Introductions are not usually made in
public vehicles or on the street.”

“Hundreds of hardworking, self-deny-
ing young couples are living on $12 a
week, and happily too.”

“Eggs should not be given to a young
child more than twice a week.”
“Small pieces of soap may be rubbed
on a vegetable grater or run through a
food chopper to make shavings for
dishwashing.”

“Mother’s Good-Time Dress: a tunic
of King’s Blue Chiffon over lustrous
dark blue satin.”

“Elevate your flour barrel from the

floor to keep dampness from collecting
at the bottom.”

“Everything all right?” asked Lily.

“Sure,” said Arabella. “Fine and dandy.”

“Let me give you one quiet word of warn-
ing, honey,” said Lily. “This is a very ro-
mantic little village, but this is just one short
week out of a whole lifetime. You'll be back
in Westchester before you know it.”

“IT know,” said Arabella.

“And once you are back in Westchester,
and happily married off to Malcolm, and
knee-deep in the PTA and everything, you
won’t think about Enkhuisen at all.”

“I suppose not,” said Arabella.

‘And now that I got that off my chest, I'll
race you downstairs,” said Lily. “You know
who’s waiting for us.”

“Idiot,” said Arabella, sprinting for the
door.

They all went out in a chartered /ammerack
that day, a fine, broad-beamed hausfrau of a
boat, with leeboards and a great carved tiller
and a cockpit roomy enough for a dozen. A
captain and one crewman came with the boat,
both of them mustachioed old Dutchmen with
seamed faces and enormous hands. They pow-
ered Out past the mole into the sparkling,
shallow [Jsselmeer, and then the Dutchmen
winched up the heavily patched mainsail. The
lammerack quivered gratefully and tucked her
head down and drew smoothly away from
shore.

‘Like it?” asked Pieter. He had been very
quiet up to now.

“It’s wonderful,” said Arabella.

“You're leaving tomorrow,” said Pieter.

“Yes,” said Arabella. ““But we don’t have
to talk about that now.”

“Of course not,” said Pieter.

He reached over and tucked her loose scarf
tightly around her neck.

“So you don’t take a Dutch cold back to
America with you,” he said.

Lily was sitting across the cockpit from
them, her head on Dirk’s shoulder.

“What's the matter you don’t take care of
me like that, huh?” she said.

“Itis part of my plan that you do take a cold
back,”’ said Dirk. “Every time you sneeze you
will think of me. Atchoo; good old Dirk.
Atchoo; good old Enkhuisen.””

“T do like a sentimental man,” said Lily.

They had an excellent lunch out of a hamper
that Pieter had brought—thin little chicken
sandwiches on brown bread, black olives,
stuffed celery, the ever-present cheese, and
cold Dutch beer out of beaded bottles. On the
way home, after sunset, as the /ammerack
moved with slow, ponderous grace over the
dark water toward the distant, winking lights
of the harbor, they sang, songs like Alouerte
and Tipperary. The captain dug into his pea
jacket for a battered old harmonica and
played them the one American sailor song he
knew, the sweetly sad Shenandoah. They
sat very still as he played it, and it was
as if the harmonica were the only sound on
earth, just that and the gentle swish of the
water.

“We'll have one last game,” said Arabella,
when they got back to the hotel. She managed
to keep her voice tolerably calm.

“By all means,” said Pieter, in a curiously
flat tone.

a
lie billiard room was empty. They played
more slowly than usual, more carefully, study-
ing each shot, chalking their cues with extra
solicitude. The hypnotic spell of the game and
of the room itself was stronger than ever, and
although they talked very little, the very si-
lence was vibrant with tension.

“You do have to go back,” said Pieter, when
the game was at last over. More than a state-
ment, it was a question, a plea.

““Yes,”’ said Arabella. “I do have to.”

Malcolm appeared, for the first time in
days. Arabella’s image of him was crystal-
clear He smiled at her sturdily, and then
drifted back into the recesses of her mind.
The procedure took less than two seconds.

“And I have to go back to Amsterdam,”
said Pieter. “‘Holidays don’t last forever, not
even the best ones.”’ He hesitated. ““You know,
we’re drifters, you and I,”’ he said slowly. “And
each of us is about to drift out of the other’s
life and into the wrong life, from what amounts
to sheer inertia.”

“Sh-h-h,” said Arabella.

“It’s true,” said Pieter fiercely. “Terribly
true, and you know it. I couldn’t say this if
you didn’t know it.”

He flicked off the lamps and they stood
there in the gloom, with only the light from the
hall to show what was in their eyes.

“Arabella,” he said.

“Even if you were right I'd have to go,” said
Arabella sadly.

“Pll come back here on Saturdays,” said
Pieter, in a tone that was reflective, almost
matter-of-fact. Arabella put the tips of her
fingers on his lapel. “It’s not a bad drive from
Amsterdam, an hour tops. And I'll pretend
you're just down the hall, and you'll come in
any minute. You’ve just been powdering your
nose, that’s all.”

“Sh-h-h,” said Arabella again. “There are
lots of billiard rooms in Amsterdam.”

““No haunted ones. Good-bye. darling.”

“Good-bye. Good-bye,’ said Arabella.

“| don’t want to go through this again,”
said Pieter. “I won’t see you in the morning.”
“It’s been a lovely week.”’ said Arabella.

“Yes, it has,” said Pieter. “It has, you
know.”

“IT don’t know where all this luggage comes
from,” said Lily. “It’s like hamsters.”

She was standing helplessly in the middle of
a litter of suitcases. Arabella was at the win-
dow, looking at the sunlight on the water, at
the gulls, the fishing boats and the weather-
beaten old houses that fronted on the harbor.
On the street in front of the hotel a child ran
laughing after a loping dog. The sound of bells
filled the morning air.

“If you’re not going to help me pack we’re
never going to get away,” said Lily. “Come
on now. | think you’ve had too big a dose of
this town.”

**Maybe so,” said Arabella.

““My poor old pool shark,” said Lily. “You
really got bitten pretty badly, I guess.”

“TPIl live,’ said Arabella.

“Pull yourself together, girl,’ said Lily.
“When we get home you'll be so busy getting
ready for the wedding that you won’t know
which end is up. And now will you help me with
these bags!”

Their freighter was due to sail from Amster-
dam on Saturday night. A few hours before
sailing Arabella and Lily sat over coffee at a
downtown sidewalk café in Amsterdam. Ara-
bella was restless and moody, tapping her
fingers on the marble tabletop, while Lily was
abubble at the thought of getting home.

“Brother, will 1 be glad to see New York
again!” said Lily. “Just to walk up seedy old
Broadway at eight o’clock at night, and smell
the popcorn and blink at all the lights and
know I’m on my way to a good show ——”

Arabella had been staring into her half-
empty coffee cup, thinking of the billiard
room, and the solitary player, for this was
Saturday night. And now, as if the cup were a
dark crystal ball, Malcolm appeared there.

NURSERY

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Arabella looked him in the eye thoughtfully.
She thought of a number of things: of
Westchester, of security. of a tidy life. And
then she thought of bells, many echoing bells,
dark green cloth, a lovable wide boat. Shenan-
doah sounded in her mind; the harmonica
was piercingly sweet.

Malcolm’s latest letter was in her pocket-
book. It was exactly like all the letters that had
preceded it, terribly correct, terribly dull.

I’m sorry, Malcolm, said Arabella to her-
self. But you won't have any trouble finding a
much better girl than me.

“No,” she said aloud.

“No what?” said Lily.

“I’m not going back with you.”

“But everything’s on the boat already!”

“T’ve got traveler’s checks,” said Arabella,

standing up. *
“But Malcolm ——” é

“PI write Malcolm,” said Arabella. “Tl
write you too. I’m going to get out of here be-
fore I have a chance to change my mind.”

1
She ran out into the crowded street before
Lily could do more than gasp. There was a
taxi on the corner, a square old black cab.
The driver was reading a newspaper by the
light of the street lamp. Arabella got in. The
leather of the seat was worn and brown, and
there were fresh flowers in a little vase by the
window.

“Can you run me up to Enkhuisen?’’ she
said.

*Enkhuisen ?” he said incredulously.

“An hour tops,”’ said Arabella. “I have that
on the best authority.”

He shrugged a_ these-crazy-Americans
shrug, and turned on the ignition.

It was a little after ten o’clock when they
drew up to the Amstel Hotel. As Arabella en-
tered the lobby, Father Christmas’s eyebrows
went up in pleased amazement. Arabella put
a finger to her lips to hush him, and walked
down the corridor to the billiard room. There
were lights on inside, and she could hear the
occasional click-click of the balls.

Pieter was in there alone. Arabella stood in
the doorway for a few seconds and watched
him. Finally he looked up.

“T’ve just been powdering my nose,” said
Arabella softly.

Pieter didn’t say anything for a few seconds;
he just stared at her.

“TI couldn’t stand thinking of you here
alone,” said Arabella. “I know how crazy
this is.”

“I told Saskia good-bye,” said Pieter. “I
had to.”

Arabella nodded.

“There are so many things to say,’
Pieter. “Get a cue, why don’t you.”

Arabella went to the bin and took out a cue,
and rolled it on the table to test it. And as she
looked across the familiar green cloth at
Pieter, the only sound in the billiard room was
the beating of her heart. END

’

said

“T can foresee it now—the world crisis, the emergency meeting in
Washington, the calm, sure voice of our first woman President.”

<a te

= Fe

re ee — re

= >

OS
JANUARY, 1962

JHE KIND MONSTER

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 38

afternoon to eat her cookies, and Mary thought
all her clothes were beautiful enough to
borrow; indeed, she was apt to be hugged
and kissed by any one of them at the most un-
likely moments... . But they would notice one
fine day, all right, when she walked downstairs
in a size-12 sleeveless sheath!

She straightened the living room quickly,
and scooped up the last few salted peanuts in
| the candy dish before she washed it. Some peo-
_ ple eat salted peanuts by the pound! Then she
put the first load of laundry into the washer,
and got out her dust mops. She hesitated over
the thought of a frosty soft drink, and finally
she opened a bottle and carried it upstairs with
her. She didn’t have to drink it unless she got
terribly thirsty.

When she carried the second basket of laun-
dry out to the high back stoop at noon, the
school bell was ringing in the distance; she’d
just have time to hang up the clothes before
the children trooped home. She poised on the
top step over the cellarway as she always did,
and réached to pull in the line. Someone had
left a large gray rock on the edge of the step,
but she paid no attention, and when the line
came in faster than she expected she leaned out
to slow it down.

From that point on it was hard to tell what
happened. Her foot must have struck the rock
and toppled her forward, a damp pillowcase
| flapped against her face, she grabbed blindly
for the railing and missed, and with a wrench
one leg caught behind the other and she crashed
_ to the ground.
| She sat there stunned for a moment, aston-
_ ished; she thought how surprised her eyes
/ must look, her mouth hanging open. But then
her jaws clamped together with pain; she had
| never felt anything like it. It felt like blow after
blow of a machete against her knee, and each
blow spread a wave of dizziness through her
until she could not hold on, and she floated off
in a faint.

She opened her eyes to see Bo staring over
the railing.

“Hey, what’re you doing down there?’ he
' asked with nine-year-old interest.

| Mary appeared beside him, already munch-
| ing an apple. *“What’s the matter with mom?”
she asked, and then she swallowed hastily, and
bolted down the steps.

| “Don’t call me mom,” Virginia mumbled,
_ and fainted again.

| How Dix got home from the lumber mill so
_ fast she’d never know, but he was there to ride
| in the ambulance with her, leaving Mary and
Bo and Winkie (wailing) on the sidewalk. As
soon as the intern gave her a shot of some-
_ thing she drifted into a helpless nimbus of sur-
| render. She allowed them to lift her body from
| stretcher to table to stretcher, feeling with wry
objective humor like a hot dog being rolled
from bun to bun, until finally she lay on a high
white bed in a small gré€n' room, and a nurse
» pulled the sheets up over her and closed the
_ window. af

“Get a good night’s rest, dear,’ Dix said,
clasping her hand. “They’ll ship you home
tomorrow.”

“Oh, sure,” Virginia said groggily. “Dix,

| wait a minute! There’s an envelope of money
_ for the milkman, stick it in an empty bot-
| tle... . And darling, please, don’t let Bo wear
his cowboy boots to school.”
“Take it easy,” Dix said. “I was a sergeant
| in the Army, remember?’’ He gave her a wide
» reassuring smile and closed the door as he went
out.

She fell back drowsily and closed her eyes.
Come to think of it, Dix looked like a ser-
| geant: square and straight-backed, bushy eye-
brows, heavy jaw—but he never lost his tem-
per or raised his voice. All he did to keep the
children in line was growl a little. How sweet
_ he was!

She wasn’t really aware of the cast until the
following morning, but when she looked down
under the sheet, why, there it was, a solid-
_ concrete post from her hip to her ankle! She
» could barely see her five pink toes beyond the
edge of plaster curving over her instep.

“Well, how long?” she asked Dix when he

came in to see her.

“Oh, a month,” he answered.calmly. ““Could
be more. We’ll take it a day at a time.”

“In bed?” she asked, astounded. “Couldn’t
they give me a walking cast, for mercy’s
sake?’

“Doc says a pulled tendon’s tedious to heal.
He wants you immobile.”

“All this fuss and not even a decent frac-
ture,” Virginia said, and smiled a little. ‘Poor
Bo! What’s dramatic about a pulled tendon?”

She rode in the ambulance again that after-
noon, and the orderlies carried her into the
house through the garage, up the stairs to her
room. Mary had made her bed clean and
doused the pillow with perfume; Bo had spared
her his cage of hamsters for company; and
Winkie finally pattered in, muddy and damp
from the woods, with a bunch of bittersweet
for her dressing table.

“Now kids, listen to me,’’ Dix said in his
growling voice. “Your mother will run this
house by remote control; we’re taking orders.
Oke)?

They nodded O.K.

“Mary can manage the cooking,” Virginia
said. ‘“She’s almost fifteen. And Bo can do the
yard—only don’t dare touch that rotary mower
unless daddy’s home, understand? And Win-
kie—well, Winkie can carry me things, can’t
you, dear? Tomorrow I'll want my knitting
bag and writing paper and lots of things. . . .
I’m tired tonight.” Her voice went suddenly
wispy. “Pll try not to bother you much, you’re
all so good.”

They lined up to kiss her.

“Don’t worry, mother, I love to cook,”
Mary whispered. “Lots of girls get married
when they’re fifteen.”

“Oh, yes, lots of them.’ Virginia smiled.
“Thank you, honey. . . . Have you got eye
shadow on?”

“T only borrowed a touch,” Mary said, and
quickly made room for Bo.

“If anything happens your leg don’t heal,
it’s all right, mom,” he told her bravely. ““We’ll
make out. .. . Boy, do you smell like ether!”

Then Winkie stood on tiptoe to kiss her,
looking a little lost. She was only six, after all,
and frail as a sprite. She had always been more
dependent than the others, wanting the tooth-
paste squeezed on her brush, and someone to
lace her shoes.

“You can still do my back buttons, can’t
you, mommy?” she begged. “I'll let you cut
out my new paper dolls if you want.”

They trailed downstairs, and Dix stayed to
lower the window blinds, and gave her one of
the purple pills the doctor had left.

“What a life!’’ he teased, though his voice
was husky. ““A month to relax in bed! Some
people have all the luck.”” He leaned over and
kissed her. “I’m terribly sorry, Vee. Ill do my
best. You’ve got the phone right by the bed;
you can always call the office.”

““___ sg good,”’ was all Virginia could say.

By the time they brought up a cup of tea she
was sound asleep.

The first few days were like a special vaca-
tion, in spite of the ache inside the large white
cast the children christened The Monster. So
many flowers arrived Mary ran out of vases,
friends stopped by day and night, the tele-
phone rang. After school Bo brought a stream
of small boys in to admire her cast (by some
mysterious route that escaped his father) and
Virginia let them all sign their names on it with
a ball-point pen. :

“We thought at first she’d broke her back
or something,’ Bo admitted importantly. “We
might have to wheel her around in a chair the
rest of her life! It’s only a pulled tendon. Like
when your muscle goes ri-ii-ii-ip.””

Friends brought her books and spray co-
logne, and a smorgasbord of delicacies arrived
from neighbors; the children were so stuffed
with cupcakes, potato salad and pie that Mary
didn’t have to turn on the range.

But the active evidence of concern naturally
dwindled, and by Saturday when the weekend
started the family was on its own.

The children brought up the morning tray:
a pot of coffee, half a grapefruit, and one piece
of toast with thin marmalade.

“That doesn’t look like much,” Bo said. un-
folding her napkin. ““How about a chunk of
Mrs, Gaines’s fudge cake?”

TUSSY DEODORANT

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all nice to your skin, your clothes, your
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your pick. Keep your favorite Tussy Deo-
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ithe
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need to scrub.
in hardest wate

here’s rust r¢

ds up fast, stays sudsy even

cy 7 Hs
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rust-free longer, too
ster in every Brillo pad!

Virginia knew all about Mrs. Gaines’s fudge
icing, the glossy swirls so thick you had to use
a fork.

‘Mommy hardly eats anything for break-
fast,’ Winkie said.

At noon Dix had them working in the gar-
den, so lunch was late: a bowl of chicken
broth, three crackers, and a little canned ap-
plesauce.

She heard Winkie’s shrill voice in the kitchen:
“Don’t make a sandwich! Mommy never eats
a thing for lunch, you know she doesn’t!”” She
thought if they brought up a sandwich she
might eat half. Even peanut butter.

During the afternccn she asked Bo rest-
lessly if there was any orange ice in the freezer,
and he came back with a grape popsickle in-
stead, and even though she didn’t care for
grape she ate it so she wouldn’t hurt his feel-
ings.

“Got any bedsores yet?’’ Bo asked. ‘“‘How’s
your back?”

“Oh, now, honestly, Bo! I’ve only been in
bed a couple of days.”

“Well, you'll probably get them,” Bo as-
sured her. ““Better watch it.”

Mary made what she called goop for din-
ner—hamburger and tomato soup laced with
orégano—and Dix made one of his fine green
salads and that was all. Virginia could smell
bread toasting, and she knew there must be
some fudgecake left, but when they asked her
anxiously if she’d had enough she said of
course. They all knew she had the appetite of a
bird.

That evening Virginia felt irritable for the
first time. She told Dix she wished he’d bring
home some chewing gum, and she asked Mary
and Bo to please take their Scrabble board and
their bowl of popcorn someplace else.

By Monday morning the pain in her leg had
edged away, and The Monster was simply a
cumbersome appendage, as though somebody
had hinged a log to her hip.

The house was very quiet with the family
gone. The windows were closed and a captive
bee buzzed faintly against the screen. A spigot
dripped, and an impudent rumbling sound be-
gan in her stomach.

Virginia was hungry. She thought she had
never been so hungry in her life. She won-
dered if there was any cheese in the refrigera-
tor, the crumbly kind. She thought about the
pretzels in the kitchen cabinet, the can of
salted cashews. She stared at the box of choco-
lates on top of her bureau; it might as well
have been in Zanzibar. Besides, she seldom ate
candy.

There was half a cup of cold coffee still on
her tray, so she gulped it down. Then she
drank the bit of cream left in the tiny pitcher,
and shoved the tray aside.

Yow re being silly, she told herself. Think
about something else. I wonder what Mary in-
tends to fix me for lunch.

Virginia soon settled down to a daily rou-
tine. She started knitting a vest-type sweater
for Dix; she mended and read and used the
new push-button control for the TV.

The mornings she spent making careful lists
for every member of the family. She made
notes about taking clothes to the cleaners,
sorting the linens, bringing in firewood, where
to store empty jelly glasses and when to take
the dog out. But most of all she enjoyed the
grocery lists.

Bs evening Mary sat down with her after
supper and planned the next day’s menus, add-
ing things to the list for Dix to take marketing
Friday night. Once in a while a friend did a
little extra shopping for her, and one day she
asked for a bag of corn chips just for herself,
to keep by her bed. She had a delightful time
nibbling all afternoon, but when they were
gone she did not know what to do with the
bag.

They'll think I’m a pig, a whole bag of corn
chips all by myself! she thought, overcome
with guilt. They'll think I deserve to be fat ! And
it iswt true! All I deserve is sympathy, for heay-
en’s sake; I haven’t eaten a decent meal in ages,
like other people.

She wrung the bag frantically between her
hands, and finally reached over and stuffed it
under her mattress.

Filled with remorse, she asked for one meat
patty that night instead of two, although to

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

tell the truth she could have eaten three. There
really isn’t much nourishment in corn chips.

‘How is your mother eating ?”’ she heard the
doctor ask Mary out in the hall, after one of
his visits.

“Oh, everything on her tray!” Mary said
cheerfully.

““Remember she’s totally inactive,’ the doc-
tor warned. “Her appetite may fail. Just see
that she gets her vitamin pills, she'll be all
right.”

“Vee’s never been a heavy eater,’ Dix ex-
plained. “Gains weight on nothing. No des-
serts or gravy, things like that.”

“Just as well,” the doctor said, and tramped
downstairs.

Dix knows the things I have to do without,

Virginia thought gratefully. Dix understands. I *
think I miss hot homemade biscuits most of all. é

White and fluffy with butter melting on them.
Oh, what I'd give for one hot biscuit! I haven't
eaten a good hot biscuit for years.

Marr she shouted, and rang her little
brass bell. ““Mary, dear—my throat’s so dry.
Aren’t there any fruit drops I can suck?”

“TIl go look in a minute,” Mary promised,
and wandered into the bathroom.

“Are you in my cosmetics again?” Virginia
called.

“Not really, mother,’ Mary mumbled, as
though she were putting on lipstick. “I hardly
touched a thing.’’ She came back past the bed
smelling strongly of rose hand lotion. ““Toby’s
taking me to the movies. daddy said I could
go. I wish I could borrow your blue scarf for
my hair.”

“Don’t you always borrow it?’ Virginia
smiled. “How about my scarab bracelet and
my purse cologne? And better take my wrist
watch so you'll be home by eleven.’’ She gave
her a pat. ‘“‘What are Bo and Winkie doing,
dear?”

“Bo’s next door at a Cub Scout meeting,
and Winkie’s toasting marshmallows over the
stove. Daddy’s doing his checkbook.”

“Send Winkie up to see me,”’ her mother
said.

Mary forgot the fruit drops, but presently
Winkie trotted in with a burned marshmallow
on the end of a stick. Virginia popped it into
her mouth, smacking her lips loudly for Win-
kie’s delight. It was perfectly delicious, in spite
of the char.

““Why don’t you make me another one, dar-
ling, you’re so smart?”

“IT would, only that was my last one.”? Win-
kie sighed.

By the end of the second week Virginia had
finished all but the sleeves of Dix’s sweater,
and she decided that this was a fine chance to
rearrange her untidy recipe books. So she sat
for several days surrounded by notebooks and
filing cards, and copied and clipped and pasted,
and when she came across a favorite recipe she
would read the list of ingredients over several
times, as thoughtfully as though she were read-
ing a poem, imagining how they tasted. Melted
chocolate . . . brown sugar . . . walnuts,
chopped . . . trim with rosettes of whipped
cream, whipped cream, whipped cream.

I don’t know what’s the matter with me, she
thought, almost in tears. I’m so ashamed! It
must be because I’m idle; downstairs I always
was busy. Maybe I used to pick up a snack now
and then to keep me going. But surely not
enough so that I'd miss it!

She tried not to think about food at all;
she really tried. And there under her soft
blue blankets, not even able to reach the box
of cough drops on Dix’s dresser, you might
think her world was bounded by other things.
But every TV program she watched was spon-
sored by cake mix or pizza or pork and beans,
and every magazine she opened was crowded
with full-color photographs of glorious stews
and cream pies and jellied salads. Her mouth
watered willfully for the strangest things; even
canned peaches, which she disliked intensely,
began to look sweet and golden in their succu-
lent juice.

Sometimes in the mornings when she was
alone she wondered wildly if she might some-
how struggle out of bed, coaxing The Monster
along, and find a half-eaten candy bar in Bo’s
room, an apple in Winkie’s. She never was
wild enough to think she could make the
stairs.

i ]
’

JANUARY, 1962

Strangely enough, as the weeks wore along
the days seemed to pass more swiftly. Virginia
made a game of living by the clock, saving cer-
tain rewards for certain hours; it was amazing

how many pleasant occupations were within

reach of her arms! In fact, she knew by the end

of the first month she’d never have time to fin-

ish all the projects she’d started, and some,
like the language records, there was no use
beginning.

Her leg gave her very little trouble, and she
no longer suffered sharp hunger pangs, so she
' was reasonably content. When she thought
_ about food the actual fragrances and flavors
_ became fantasies, like inaccessible riches, to

lust for a little and let pass hopelessly by.

It was a matter of some chagrin that the rest

of the family also seemed remarkably content.
There was seldom a crisis that could not be
solved from the bedside. Virginia was not in-
clined, for instance, to make an issue of Mary’s
light-fingered freedom with her possessions
’ when Mary was running her kitchen with such
commendable patience. Nor would she fuss
with Winkie when socks didn’t match or sash
ends hung forlornly.

And in return, not one of them disputed her
ultimatums, as they might have done if she
were well. The house had never been calmer.

At the end of five weeks the doctor was due
for his Monday-evening visit, and he had
promised her a decision about removing the
cast. Virginia could think of nothing else all
day, and the thing that worried her most was
'whether she’d lost any weight. Goodness
knows, she’d been dieting for years off and on,
»and scarcely lost an ounce. It simply wasn’t
-her nature. There was no way of telling her
present weight, lying here in bed, though her
ribs felt a little leaner. If she could only get to
the bathroom scales!

When Winkie came home from school be-
fore the others, her mother called her upstairs.

“Darling, are you big enough to bring me
the bathroom scales?’ she asked, and Winkie
lugged them into the room and laid them on
the floor.

“What are you going to do?” Winkie
breathed. ““Gee, mommy! How will you get
The Monster back in bed?”

“You'll have to help me,” Virginia said.
“It’s important.”

She swung her left leg out of the bed and
flexed her foot gingerly, and then she carefully
maneuvered The Monster to the edge of the
mattress and lowered it half an inch at a time
till her bare toes rested on the platform of the
scales. She then told Winkie to stand in front
of her and firmly grasped her shoulders, and
just for a second she released her grip and
glanced at the dial. Then she sat back against
the edge of the bed, exhausted.

“Now you must help me lift The Monster,”
she said, and began to be frightened, for it
seemed an impossible task, and Winkie was
only a baby.

“Don’t worry, I can do: it,’ Winkie said
brightly. She got on her knees and put her two

small arms under the cast and raised it slowly,
‘using her shoulders to hoist it onto the bed,
and then she busily tidied the covers and
smoothed the pillow, and finally she hugged
her mother a moment, resting her head on her
chest.
“I didn’t know you were such a big girl,
Winkie,” Virginia said, thoughtfully stroking
her hair. ““Who’s been lacing your shoes?”

“Who do you think? Me,” Winkie said. ‘I
have to find my own socks and clean my own
nails and even part my own hair. I have to do
everything.”

“That’s funny, I thought
ee"

“I don’t know who.” Winkie patted the lace
on her mother’s bed-jacket collar. “When can
you put my boots on for me, mommy?”

“Maybe I'll let you do it for yourself,’ Vir-
ginia said, and her voice caught a little.

somebody

Dive pounds less, the scales had said, a
miserly three pounds less. No, that wasn’t
right; the cast weighed something. What did it
weigh? With modern techniques only four or
five pounds? Eight pounds lost altogether, let’s
say. After all I'vesbeen through! You see how
it is?

She was so discouraged she left her dinner
fay untouched, and when Bo brought the doc-

tor upstairs she greeted him languidly, heavy
against her pillows.

“I sure hope the greengang hasn’t set in,”
Bo told the doctor.

“The what?”

“The greengang people get underneath casts
that smells so bad.”

“Good heavens,” his mother said faintly.

“Get out of here!” the doctor said.

He made his examination, and chatted a
while, and then he said he would send an am-
bulance for her in the morning, and it was
possible she’d be out of her cast by noon.

“Doctor—will you do something for me,
please?”

“Tt all depends.”

“Don’t tell Dix, don’t tell anybody, let me
surprise them?” she begged. ‘‘Let me be down-
stairs in shoes and a dress when they come
home?”

TEN

By HAROLD WITT

Moppet of metamorphosis, she’s
ten,

a long-haired Alice impish in the
water

at an edge of breaking, like a
changing wave—

leap while you can, my green and.
dimpled daughter,

this restless ocean easier than love,

Each lace she’s jumping like a rope
of days,

earth’s curving motion turning with
the sun,

times her taller, in the rhyming
foam

she’s almost Helen for whom cities
burn.

The sculptured boys are riding
toward her name.

Lithe in light through tides on
boards of balance

they’re gliding toward the shallows
where she’s young,

amorphous mergirl not yet turned
to woman;

behind her lying brilliant on the
sand

her fluttering cousins dry their
gorgeous wings.

“Why not?’ The doctor smiled. ““You’re
entitled to that.”

Virginia hesitated. ““And will you tell me...
what does a cast—a cast like this one weigh?”

The doctor ran his hand over it reflectively,
feeling the depth of the edge. ““Maybe we over-
did it a little, heavy-handed. Could be four-
teen pounds.”

**Fourteen pounds ?” Virginia gasped. ‘‘Four-
teen pounds!” And her face broke into a smile
so glowing her cheeks turned pink and her
eyes squeezed shut and she scarcely heard the
doctor when he left the room.

She kept her secret when the family left next
morning; Dix planned to pick the children up
at five in the afternoon.

When The Monster was gone, and her
strange white leg neatly strapped, she put on
her dress, the flowered silk she’d bought just
before the accident. It was so loose she had to
make a new hole in the belt with her nail file.
The sleeves drooped, and you could hardly
tell where her hips were under the folds of the
skirt. She could not believe it; she stared until
she could not stand up in front of the mirror
any longer.

She sat knitting in the living room while she
waited for the family, the cuff of the last sleeve
of Dix’s sweater, and once ina while she sucked
the tip of a knitting needle dreamily.

All right, so I “pieced” between meals, she
admitted. But I never realized... almost twenty

pounds’ worth! Now I'm out of the habit, I
won't start again. Maybe I'll eat a little more at
mealtimes. It really isn’t fair to worry Dix.

She heard the car turn into the drive and
both doors slam, and the two children gal-
loped up the front walk, with Mary and Dix
behind. They came into the hallway, and she
stood up shakily. Winkie raced to hug her, but
the others just stood there.

““Mother, sit down,” Mary said, alarmed.

The went to her timidly and patted her
shoulders and her hair and kissed her cheeks
and stood back and stared at her one after the
other. She couldn’t imagine why their greeting
was not more joyous. After five weeks of good
cheer and coddling and loving laughter, now
that she was well, they appeared to be mor-
tally stricken.

She heard them whispering together in the
kitchen, and Winkie, who refused to budge
from the footstool beside her, rested her el-
bows on her knees and stared at her solemnly
and said:

“Mommy, how old are you?”

Dix came and helped her out to the table for
dinner, and when they bowed their heads to
say grace she could feel the tears behind her
eyelids, overwhelmed to be with them again,
where she belonged.

“See, she’s crying,” Bo said. “That’s a sign.”

“T made chicken salad, mother,’ Mary said.
“And homemade frozen biscuits. I hope you
can eat something.”

“Eat? Of course I can eat!”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,
you know,” Mary said kindly. “You don’t
look very well.”

Virginia’s eyes widened. “What do you
mean?”

They all began to tell her at once.

“You—you’re just so skinny ——

““Maybe she has some ravishing disease,”
Bo said.

““Y ou—you look so sad!” Winkie started to
cry.

“Shut up, all of you!’ Dix growled; but his
face, too, was white with concern.

“Well, just because I lost a little weight,”
Virginia floundered. “For heaven’s sake!’

“A little weight!’ Dix said, and the children
began their condolences again till their father
brought his fist down on the table. ‘Vee, you
listen to me! I’ve had all I can take of this diet-
ing nonsense! Now you're back on your feet I
won’t put up with it another minute. Why, you
look as though I couldn’t afford to feed you! I
never had any use for scrawny women, they
depress me, and I don’t care what it says in the
fashion magazines! You start putting some
meat on those bones right now!”

So this was the glorious promise of romance
that a slender waistline offered! Put some meat
on your bones.

“Gee, when I hugged you you were all
knobby,” Winkie wailed.

Virginia sat back in bewilderment and dis-
may. Was it possible a size 16 was a nice mother
size? At least for her? Was it possible Dix
liked the kind of woman who had a little some-
thing here and there to pinch? In all her plump,
full-skirted years she had never had a com-
plaint.

Was it possible she might be able to eat a
biscuit ?

“IT guess my appetite will improve now I’m
back with you,” she said softly. “Dear, will
you serve?”

They all relaxed and set about the business
of eating, and when Bo passed the plate of
golden biscuits Virginia paused only a mo-
ment before she took one.

Mary reached over and put a second one on
her plate. “Eat two, mother,” she said. ““They’re
good for you.”

“Pass her the butter,’’ Dix said firmly.

Winkie broke open a biscuit and spread but-
ter on it, and held it out to her mother. Vir-
ginia looked at the crumbling goodness in the
offering hand and whispered ““Thank you,”
and she was aware of a warmth and enormous
relief as though it were not just the weight of
the cast that was gone.

“We'll have your mother back in shape in
no time,”’ Dix chuckled.

“Look, she’s pink already!’ Mary cried,
laughing, and Virginia smiled with unimag-
ined bliss, biting into the biscuit. END

”

= ASK ANY &
- WOMAN -

BY MARCELENE COX

Not anything melts hearts faster
than a big snowstorm.

Most women have a deep respect
for the fancy bath towels in the
bathrooms of other women; they
know how long they’ve hung there.

Babies have had to be guarded
against ‘fallout’? since time im-
memorial. The old way was to tie
them in a high chair with a diaper.

When it comes to germ preven-
tion, the newer the parent, the longer
the boiling point.

Teaching a child good manners is
a day-to-day practice. He doesn’t
stay taught anymore than an apple
stays polished.

A mother was taking her young
son to be registered for kindergarten.
“Tt won’t take long,’ she told him
reassuringly. “‘All we have to do is
give the lady your name.”

“But if you do that,”’ he said be-
seechingly, “‘what name will I use?’’

Progressive education should
mean the kind that advances directly
from misdemeanor to punishment.

Every little girl should have a
grandmother to drink afternoon tea
with, and chat, and be a lady with.

Overheard—one_ twelve-year-old to
another :

““He’s queer; know what I mean?
Kind of quiet.”

“T thought I might as well break
the bad news right off,’ explained a
young mother, “‘so my ad read,
‘Mother of five needs help.’”’

“Did you get any?’ asked her
neighbor.

“Not any help, but I did get
sympathy. Two other mothers of
five children called to tell me they
felt sorry for me.”

Changing economy: Prices that
once seemed appalling now seem
appealing.

According to one doctor, there are
three safe ways for a man over forty
to get a path shoveled through snow
to his door:

Hire a young boy next door.

Get a power shovel.

Let his wife do it.

One young bride prefers to pay
cash for all her purchases. “‘A check,”’
according to her, “‘is fantasy money,
and can be spent as easily as money
in a dream.”

SINK OR SWIM
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 20

While Carol is “getting going” in the morn-
ing, her loyal staff unlocks the studio at 9 A.M.
and starts to work. Carol’s cutter (and vice
president of Merri-Carolle) is a lanky young
Scotsman, in narrow charcoal slacks and pull-
over, with a chestnut forelock hanging over his
kind, warm brown eyes. Jon MacLain, who
was educated in Switzerland and New Zealand,
is also a music arranger and has danced in
Broadway musicals. At the start of each work-
ing day he looks hopefully on his cutting table
for some new sketches from Carol. “Some-
times there are none, and sometimes there are
eight,’ he says philosophically.

Jon improvises paper patterns from Carol’s
tiny working sketches, “trying to keep all
Carol’s bezazz,”’ he says, then he cuts the ma-
terials. Three dark-skinned young women, an
American Negro, a Puerto Rican and a Pana-
manian, work quietly and cheerfully at three
machines, stitching together the pieces. If
things go smoothly, each girl can finish two
garments a day. These are called samples
which the manufacturer then mass-produces
and sells.

Sometimes Carol’s clients want a garment
redesigned, or done in a different fabric; often
there are last-minute delays in getting a ma-
terial from the mill; helpers have a way of
getting sick, and sewing machines can break
down. A normal five-day week for Merri-
Carolle means producing twenty new gar-
ments (blouses, skirts, pants, shorts, and oc-
casionally children’s dresses), and normally
pressure runs high.

When Carol finally appears in her studio at
around 10 a.m. with a percolator of strong
black coffee and five cups, the phone has rung
possibly twenty times; calls she must return.
Jon is having trouble with the neckline of a
blouse. Muriel, the New Yorker who wants to
be an independent designer herself someday,
feels the pockets on a wool skirt should be re-
designed. At such moments, Carol’s temper is
apt to flare.

“Pm very strong-willed,” she admits, “I
know exactly what I want and I don’t want
anybody changing it.”

She finally agrees about the bias-cut pockets,
which sag. ““The wool is inferior,” she shrugs.
Her clothing accounts are in the moderate-to-
better price bracket and she cannot use the
finest wools.

Carol tries to brighten her workday with a
certain amount of whimsy. Lord high commis-
sioner of the studio is her charcoal tomcat
Patrick, who plops himself into salesmen’s
sample cases and steals the girls’ tuna sand-
wiches. The dress forms are Carol’s “‘chil-
dren” and are referred to by name: Nicole
Pennsylvania Show (a character from one of
her favorite children’s books), and Prudence,
Penelope, Philomena and Phoebe. Carol’s
bedroom is full of stuffed animals (her mother
sends her more each Christmas) and children’s
books which she used to read one evening a
week to sick children at New York Hospital
(now she doesn’t have the time). Winnie-the-
Pooh is her “‘all-time favorite book.”

Jon MacLain feels that Carol’s creative tal-
ent springs from this whimsical, childlike side
of her nature, “like a wintertime bush bursting
into bloom. She has a sense of wonder, as in a
child to whom life is a delightful garden. It’s
too bad,” he adds, “that she can’t devote all
her time to just being creative.”

_
Hivtiere agrees that Carol’s greatest appeal
lies in her little-girl quality. Says her former
roommate, a leader in the New York Junior
League, “‘Carol’s skis are bright red and small,
like a child’s; at Sugarbush you can always
spot them among hundreds leaning against the
lodge. And when Carol puts them on she
looks like a little snow bunny going down the
slopes—but believe me, she’s intrepid!”
Carol’s unusually large and beautiful blue-
gray eyes with thick black lashes often have the
open expression of a child, both trusting and
vulnerable. Sometimes they have the pleading
look of a child treasuring a forbidden lollipop.
“She lives in a make-believe world where evil
doesn’t exist—she’s Peter Pan,” says a friend.
“How long will she stay this way in the hard-
boiled world of the garment industry?”

Carol herself wishes she had more time to be
purely creative. But many times a day she
must stop and walk the five long blocks cross-
town to the garment district in New York’s
teeming West Side. In the street she wears
dark glasses, ground to her prescription, win-
ter and summer. “If I seem slightly balmy, it’s
because I’m nearsighted,’”’ she explains with a
smile. She “hates” regular glasses, preferring
to “go around in a daze.”

Once in the garment area among throngs of
men bargaining on the sidewalks, Carol’s ex-
pression stiffens. ‘You /ike this print, Carol?”
one of her clients questions her. ““You don’t
feel maybe it will die on the racks?” Mopping
his brow, with a placating smile, ““Oh, you’re
crazy about it? This print?’ The argument
rages for ten full minutes; he talks louder and
rougher, Carol remains quiet and adamant.
She wins.

“Manufacturers always want you to design
something unique and exciting for them,”’ ex-
plains Carol. “Then, if you do, they’re scared
to death of it, afraid the buyers—who in turn
don’t want to stick their necks out—won’t
touch it. So there it is, a vicious circle. Of
course,” she adds, ““when my name is as well
known in sportswear as Toni Owen or Bonnie
Cashin, anything I design will go.”

In her sharp, clicking French heels, Carol
hurries from one fabric house to another, see-
ing as many as a thousand new materials a
week. “It’s very different designing sportswear
for a Miami firm, or a New England one, or
for the Fifth Avenue shops,” says Carol, who
has designed successfully for all three. On dog
days in August she considers next spring’s
cottons; in April she’s making Christmas
clothes. After working out “‘a color story,” she
shops for matching thread, buttons, braid and
zippers. She placates her present clients while
interviewing possible future ones; time must
also be found to see her lawyer (a personal
friend), her hairdresser, her accountant, her
banker and her doctor.

Carol, who suffers from vague aches and
pains, feels she has ‘ta mild case of mono-
nucleosis. But my doctor doesn’t even listen to
me anymore; he just gives me some pills and
penicillin.”

According to a beau, “Carol thrives on
crisis. If there isn’t enough drama or excite-
ment in her business, she gets a terrible pain or
runs a fever. As soon as business is terrible, she
feels fine.

“Carol’s day is a mighty wave that gathers
momentum until it spills into half the night,”
he adds. ““She makes dates for seven, but she’s
never ready until eight-thirty. Once she kept
the guests at her own dinner party waiting for
an hour and a half.”

“Tm learning to organize my time better,”
comments Carol. “Also, Pve quit sounding
like a career girl on dates, Men resent it, I find.
From nine to five ’'m a businesswoman; after
that, ’'m a woman.”

Says a male friend who knows her well,
“Carol not only has an overriding desire to be
a business success, she also wants to be a de-
voted, loving, successful wife. She’s terribly in-
tense about her career, but equally intense
about her personal life. She’s an idealistic per-
son and feels deeply—a sincerely charming
woman.”

Comments an “old pro” in the garment in-
dustry, a top textile designer who helped Anne
Fogarty achieve recognition, ‘“Carol’s not
strong on experience, but she’s got guts and
self-assurance and versatility. She’s smart
enough to make time for a personal life too.”

Every Friday afternoon is “get Carol ready
for the weekend” at her studio, which every-
one enjoys. Then Jon presses her Jeanne
Campbell raspberry linen and the girls take up
or let down hems and do her mending. In the
summertime, she attends house parties at
Westhampton or Sea Girt, where she needs
clothes for sailing, tennis, swimming and danc-
ing; in the winter she joins groups of well-
attired friends at Vermont ski resorts. She also
needs several evening gowns for the big social
affairs of the New York season, such as the
Junior League Mardi Gras Ball, and cocktail
dresses for hotel dining and night-clubbing.

Carol buys most of her clothes these days for
lack of time to design and make them. “‘I start
trying on the $15.95 dresses in the bargain
basement and usually end up paying $50 or
$60 upstairs,” she admits. She believes in
having many simple sheath dresses with lots of
jackets to mix and match. Her general rule is
“not to pay over $100 for any one item.” She
owns no hats, few shoes, but plans to buy “‘at
least four pairs of stretch pants to go with my
red skis” at $50 a pair.

Carol admits to luxurious tastes. “I could
live on raw oysters and chocolate mousse,”’ she
sighs. For the first eight years of her life she
lived in a Spanish-style mansion in Coral
Gables, Florida, where her parents kept a
cook, butler and nursemaid. Carol was a
ravishing beauty with enormous eyes and pig-
tails thick as rope. “Sweet and determined,”
says a Close relative. “She always managed to
get her own way.”’ Carol looks back on her
childhood as “‘idyllic’’—a lovely round of sun-
kissed days between the cabana and the beach,
the country club, and summers at Asheville,
North Carolina.

Everything changed with the coming of
World War II. Her handsome father gave up
his highly successful real-estate business and
went into the Army Air Corps as a colonel.
The family soon sold their Florida place and
moved north to be near him; Carol entered
the seventh grade of Saint Agnes’s Episcopal
School in fashionable Alexandria, Virginia.

Carol’s father emerged from the war broken
in health, and money thereafter was scarce. “‘I
learned to design and sew through necessity,”
explains Carol, “‘since we could no longer af-
ford the clothes I wanted.’ At thirteen, she

4 awe

“Who's gonna drive me to Sunday school?”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL.

took a course of sewing lessons, won first prize
for a dress she designed and made. During her
high-school years, she and her mother turned
out dozens of bouffant strapless ball gowns
with “yards and yards” of petticoats and
hoops. “Carol never wanted to wear any eve-
ning dress more than once,” her chic mother
recalls. Upon her graduation Carol’s wealthy,
social classmates voted her “‘best dressed”
with the “best eyes” and the “most man-
power.”

She was also a top student. Wellesley, Mt.
Holyoke and Sweet Briar all offered her
scholarships; Carol chose the last offer because
it was the biggest. However, in her sophomore
year she decided to leave college and marry a
Washington and Lee graduate, her brother’s
former roommate at Hill School. Since her
parents could not afford to give her the kinda
of wedding she wanted, Carol worked from }

Christmas (when she became engaged) until |

June at clerical jobs to pay for a store wedding
gown and a champagne reception for a hun-
dred. The groom’s family gave the couple a
new car and they honeymooned at The
Cloisters at Sea Island.

Cam was 19, her husband 22. Tensions
appeared right from the beginning. “We were
too opposite temperamentally, and too young
to know how to handle this,’’ Carol says now.
While her husband served a two-year stretch
as a Navy officer, with Boston as his home
base, Carol worked and saved $500 to take a
year’s course at the Modern School of Fashion
and Design in Boston. At this point she had
no thought of a career, but soon became
intrigued with the idea of doing fashion design.

In 1956 her husband returned to his former
job with a New York bank. He wanted to live
in the country; Carol wanted to live in New
York City. They compromised on a charming
converted carriage house in Mt. Kisco and
Carol commuted to New York where she
assisted an independent woman designer.
However, the marriage did not improve. Carol
consulted a psychiatrist and a marriage coun-
selor. Then one day, after three and a half
years of marriage, she walked out.

After a quick Mexican divorce, she was on
her own in New York. She borrowed $250
from a friend, bought herself a new wardrobe,
and rented a garden apartment near Gramercy
Park. A bleak and discouraging period en-
sued as every day she followed job leads in
the garment district with her portfolio of
fashion sketches. A department-store buyer
helped her find her first job designing for pre-
teens. This was temporary and after two
months she was again among the unemployed,
living on peanut-butter and _ grilled-cheese
sandwiches. Soon, however, through her older
brother, who had been coxswain on the Brown
University crew, and her school and college
friends, she began having house-party and
dinner dates.

Only struggling firms were interested in
hiring a young girl with just one year of fash-
ion school and no commercial experience.
Carol turned down offers when the surround-
ings were “grubby” or the line “shoddy” or
when “the owners had designs on me other
than designing.” But her faith in herself never
wavered. When through a family friend she

}

gained an interview with Helen Lee, No. | |

designer in the children’s field, Carol did not
hesitate in turning down an offer as assistant

designer to Miss Lee. “If I'd had any sense!” ,

Carol says now. “I wanted to be a full-fledged ©
designer, not just an assistant.” ;

Finally she became an assistant designer at
Kate Greenaway’s, where she stayed a year,
gaining invaluable experience. Then she wass
lured away with the promise of a top-banana’
title. After “three hot grubby months” with
her new employer, she quit. For the next two’
years Carol flew from one payroll to the next,
always searching for room to express herself
and always moving up in prestige and salary.
She was earning $150 a week as top designer
for a pants outfit when she decided overnight
to quit and free-lance.

“Carol came to ask my advice about start-
ing her own business,’ says a handsome ac-
count executive. “She was, as usual, impatient, -
illogical, and bubbling with enthusiasm. She
didn’t have money put away for personal ex-
penses, let alone for business capital.” He

| JANUARY, 1962

,
|
|
|

—— ——

obligingly lent her $400, however; another
friend lent her $200.

Carol was then sharing a $220-a-month
apartment in the East Eighties with a Welles-
ley girl. She hunted around for a studio, finally
found for $85 a month “a dark old loft full of
mice” in a factory building on 39th Street.
Next she found two children’s-wear accounts
wiiling to pay her a total of $350 a week for
three weeks’ work. She began asking around
about a good cutter, found Jon MacLain
through her hairdresser. Jon moved his own
sewing machine into Carol’s loft and the two
of them started making children’s clothes.

In the following weeks Carol bought five
secondhand dress forms, rented two more
sewing machines and hired two more helpers
as she acquired more clients. A lawyer friend
helped write her contracts and offered to help
her incorporate for the modest fee of $150.
By the time the warm spring weather came,
Carol had found her present studio-apartment;
her staff had shaken down to a congenial set
of people, she had four paying clients, and she
had paid off her business loans from friends.
Suddenly she felt very tired. On an impulse she

HOW

CAROL BRECKENRIDGE
SPENDS HER MONEY
MONTHLY

Taxes, state and Federal. $ 42.00
Food. . . 60.00
Housing (Most of Carol’ Ss ‘rent,

phone and electricity is

charged to business). 71.00
Clothing (including felicia and

dry cleaning). Bnet tain 42.00
Medical (doctors anid dentist) ; 20.00
Transportation (weekend trips) . 20.00
Contributions Ree) 5.00
Advancement fecde ; 20.00
Personal care (hairdresser,

BOSTMEUIGS ermine rite) toes open 6 20.00
Entertaining . : 15.00
Other goods and services

(tobacco, incidentals, gifts) . . 35.00

TOTAL $350.00

flew to St. Thomas for a week’s vacation, the
first she had enjoyed in four years.

The Caribbean junket “did me a world of
good—every creative person needs lots of new
experiences and sights,” says Carol, but her
business nose-dived. When she returned, her
four clients had shrunk to one. This client
was paying her $175 a week on a yearly basis;
her weekly payroll alone was $220. For a
period of five weeks Merri-Carolle went
through a bad slump which was, in part,
seasonal. Carol also had-the expense of moy-
ing into her present quarters the early part of
June. Her savings evaporated, and although
by midsummer she had four clients again, she
needed $1000 to meet urgent business obliga-
tions. This she managed to borrow from a
leading bank; quite a feat, for as her account-
ant says, “Banks don’t lend money on per-
sonal ability or even genius. They want loans
secured with sound collateral.’ Carol’s only
collateral consists of her furniture and ward-
robe. She has no savings or insurance (other
than health) and her jewelry was lost on her
last moving day.

Almost half of the $10,000 Carol earned in
fees during her first six months she paid out
in payroll. She spent roughly $900 for office
rent and for renting machinery and another
$800 in supplies, hardware and petty cash.
Dues and subscriptions came to $78, as did
fire, theft and liability insurance. Smallest item
of expense was $10 for advertising. ““When
youre just starting out in designing, the best
advertising is word-of-mouth,” she’s found.

On paper, Carol’s prospects look bright. If
she had four steady clients hiring her services
on a yearly basis for $200 a week, her yearly
income would be $41,600. Her accountant es-
timates her expenses would be no more than
$20,000, giving her a profit before taxes of
$21,600.

——E

The biggest “if” in this rosy picture is steady
clients. In the garment industry, which is no-
torious for its ups and downs, today’s steadi-
est customer may be bankrupt tomorrow.
There is also Carol’s temperament to be con-
sidered.

“It’s nice to have the security of a yearly
contract,” she says, “but such a client can get
awfully possessive.’’ According to her cutter,
“Carol’s personality demands spreading out
to stay fresh.”

Carol feels that New York is “the only
place” for a fashion designer to get ahead.
But when she gets married and has children
(she wants at least six) she also wants a coun-

try place (for skiing) and a seashore place (for
summers). Her studio is only a block away
from Sniffen Court, an alley of ivy-covered
elegantly converted carriage houses which
carry a high-rent tag. ““Now there’s where I'd
like to live!” exclaims Carol.

She doesn’t want to marry an artist. “That
would be too much like marrying me.’ She
would like a husband who is a lawyer, business
executive or from the financial world. “I’m an
emotionally volatile person, so I need someone
who’s sensitive to my needs but steadier than I
am.” To such a steady character, Carol plans
to bring whimsy, a sense of beauty, and as
much devotion as she can spare.

Tal

“Some women are born to be homemak-

ers,’ Carol believes, “but when a woman’s
creative, she should express herself, for the
good of the world and herself.” Just recently

the Merri-Carolle label was added to a new
line of children’s sportswear. Once her trade
name is established, Carol plans to hire enough
hands to keep her business going, while she
devotes only a few hours each day to design-
ing. That is, if her business survives the first
year. If she gets enough clients, if she can re-
pay the bank every month on time, if her
health holds up—there are a dozen “‘ifs.”” But
she’s determined to stick out the first year, at
least, sink or swim. “END

More than 6,000,000 women

have already flown by Boeing
jetliners. Boeing jets are the

most proved, most popular jet-
liners in the world.

These airlines offer Boeing jetliner

service: AIR FRANCE « AIR-INDIA
AMERICAN ¢ AVIANCA

B.O.A.C. «© BRANIFF © CONTINENTAL
EASTERN « EL AL « IRISH « LUFTHANSA
NORTHWEST « PAKISTAN # PAN AMERICAN
QANTAS « SABENA * SOUTH AFRICAN
TWA « UNITED « VARIG and WESTERN.
Boeing jets go into service later with:
CUNARD EAGLE ¢ ETHIOPIAN

PACIFIC NORTHERN and SAUDI ARABIAN.

Mrs. Nola Kirkpatrick recently
took her first trip by Boeing jet
Shewsays <j

“Only
one drawback.
The trip’s
too short!”

“T went by Boeing jetliner
to visit my son and grand-
children,” says Mrs. Kirk-
patrick. “The flight was
simply wonderful — every
minute of it. It was so quiet
and smooth I could hardly
believe we were moving.
And everyone was so
pleasant and helpful — the
stewardesses and everyone
I met. There was only one
drawback, the trip was such
fun it was much too short!
Before I realized it, we
half way across the country.
I can hardly wait for my
next trip by Boeing jetliner!”

were

SIEM Ms SOMIMETS

LONG

RANGE

707 »* MEDIUM-RANG 720

SHORT-RANGE

SHAPING THE ’60’°S
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 33

do not dress as well after they are married as
they do before. Yes, say 65 per cent, women
should have a firm budget for clothes after they
are married. Our young unmarrieds have con-
fidence in their own taste; only about a fourth
seek family help in selecting clothes now.

Dr. Gallup’s trained and seasoned research-
ers expressed considerable surprise at just how
beauty-conscious this young American girl is.
She devours beauty news and tips—and over-
whelmingly (88 per cent) relies on magazines
for them. Fully half of this enchanting age
group say that they do not make the most of
their looks, that they need still more help and
advice and eagerly seek it.

Lipstick is standard equipment; after put-
ting lipstick on, the girls begin to differ. Three
fourths of them use mascara on dates, but less
than half use it every day. Over half put their
best face forward on an evening out, which
requires face powder, eyebrow pencil, spray net,
eye shadow and base makeup.

MEN, MORALS AND MOTHER

When asked what was the most important
influence in forming their moral and ethical
codes, a surprising 13 per cent said books.
The more expected answers—home, 64 per
cent; and church, 45 per cent—were followed
by friends, 26 per cent; and school, 14 per cent.

However consistent most of them were in
endorsing a high moral standard, they varied
widely in defining just what it was. Certainly
the great majority agreed with the 19-year-
old attending school in Washington who
said that happiness was possible only if you

followed a strict moral code. A few qualified
this reply slightly. ““Happiness comes from a
fairly strict moral code, not a very strict
one,”’ a lively Georgia beauty said.

Many others feel that a moral code is a mat-
ter of one’s own conscience. “I can be happier
because I know I have done nothing to be
ashamed of,’ an Omaha college freshman said.
‘Break a moral code,” a twelfth-grade student
declared, ‘‘and you have to live with yourself
and no one else.”

Closely allied were those who stated that a
high ethical standard was a matter of self-
respect. “If I can’t respect myself, I can’t ex-
pect others to,”’ said a college junior.

A chin-up, master-of-my-own-fate attitude
was expressed by a number of respondents—
typically, a college senior from Virginia:
“Nothing is wrong except as you believe it
to be so. Your happiness depends on whether
you live up to your own moral code.”

No one endorsed this attitude more en-
thusiastically than a 21-year-old who said,
“Tt all depends on the individual. Some can
be happy with no moral code, others must be
straight as an arrow.”

‘True happiness comes from within a per-
son and is usually nota result of adhering to
society,” a Florida college freshman said.
Others: “Happiness is something you must
work out for yourself.” ““Happiness is
gained by making someone else happy.”

More often than not, the basis for a code of
living was the Ten Commandments (““No one
can be genuinely happy unless he centers his
life about Christ and His teachings”) and the
Golden Rule; while, occasionally, ‘“‘social
pressure” ruled one’s standards. “Society
makes a strict moral code, and if you don’t

abide, you are an outcast,” said a 20-year-old
from the far West.

Those who rejected any code at all scarcely
amounted to a respectable statistic, but a few
did. “Happiness can be destroyed by a strict
moral code or a very prudish society which
forces people to repress the physical aspects
of an otherwise happy emotional relation-
ship’—this from an 18-year-old college girl.

A Southern girl, the same age, said, “I
wouldn’t be happy as an extremely wild girl,
yet I see nothing wrong in smoking, drinking,
petting.” An outspoken Californian: “As long
as a girl doesn’t get pregnant, then why
worry?” And a college junior from Brooklyn:
““A strict moral code can prove frustrating.”

To quote only a few others who spoke for
the overwhelming majority: “If I took part in
anything immoral, I’d not be able to live with
myself or face others.” “It means peace
with oneself and with God... .“*. . . the joy
of knowing you are doing the right thing.”

“Tt gives one inner satisfaction, besides aiding
society.” “Your marriage will hold more
excitement.”

SHOULD THERE BE

A DOUBLE STANDARD FOR
UNMARRIED MEN AND WOMEN?
Few girls would have anything to do with less
than an uncompromising stand against the

double standard. More often than not, it was
characterized as immoral:

“Social and moral law doesn’t approve of
sex before marriage for either men or women.”

“It is disgraceful, shameful and disgusting.”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

“If there have been previous relationships
on either side, I think the possibility of a suc-
cessful marriage could be greatly impaired.”

“The reason for not entering into a pre-
marriage act should not be because something
might happen, but rather a thought of keeping
your body pure for the one you marry.”

*““A man or woman should not do whatever
they want. What would the world come to?”

“I believe the Ten Commandments. I don’t
follow them always, but I do believe in them.
There is nothing in them which gives opposite
rules for the opposite sexes.”

“Sex should be looked upon as a sacred
thing. Men and women, if engaged or going
steady, should discuss just how far their physi-
cal entanglements are to be involved.”

“IT feel that each should have the same
standards, because it is just as wrong for one
as it is for the other.”

““No matter how much in love the couple
are, they should not go as far as having a
sexual relationship. I believe a girl would lose
her self-respect and the one she loves.”

“God set down His commandments for one
as well as the other. I want to think and know
that the man I marry has high moral standards
and has lived up to them.”

“Absolutely not. This ‘double standard’
goes against the laws of God and man.
Furthermore, the problems it claims to solve
would not actually be solved. The fear of preg-
nancy and the satisfaction which would never
be fully attained would cause this frustration.”

“Although the woman actually is the only
one who will bear a scar before her marriage

AS GAROL BRECKENRIDGE SEES THE os)

1. Do you expect to marry again?

Yes, eventually, but I’ve not yet found the man.
Twenty-five is the right age for a girl to marry, I
think, because by then she’s developed her own inter-
ests and personality. If she waits too long, she
becomes too independent and loses some of her fem-
ininity. Femininity—toaman—means pliability. Men
get set in their ways after twenty-five, too, but then
nobody expects a man to be pliable.

2. After you get married, do you plan to work outside
the home?

Absolutely. A job keeps a woman vital and interest-
ing, since the demands on a housewife are less than
they used to be. A wife can enrich her own life as well
as her husband’s and children’s with an absorbing
outside job.

It 1s possible that you might receive a larger salary from
an outside job than your husband. Do you feel this might
make problems in your home life, or do you feel it
wouldn't make much difference?

I'd rather not try this. A man’s ego depends to a large
extent on his earning power. Ideally, woman’s pay
should be extra money for work she enjoys; the man
should be the chief family support.

3. Do you expect to continue working outside the home
after you have children?

Yes, definitely. I would not want to design my fash-
ions in my home because I want it separate and pri-
vate. Work is more refreshing if you have some pla e
to go to and come from.

4. Many women who have children wish to hold well-

paying jobs, bul have no one to take care of the children
or manage the home while they are at work. Do you think
it would be a good idea to train young women, who are

not yel married, to go into these homes of working
mothers and take over the responsibilities ?

Absolutely! I always had a nurse as a child. My
mother played with me and disciplined me, but we
weren’t together every minute of the day. If a woman
is so constructed that to make her home happy she
must have a career, then I believe she should. I think
it works out better if both parents work. There is less
parent-child tension. I would have a hand in the
discipline—immediate disciplining should be done by
the nursemaid. And I would rather have the father do
the major disciplining. It’s traditional.

Do you think many young women would be interested in
doing this type of work?

Very few people today take pride in cleaning house or
caring for children because the work is put on a do-
mestic rather than a professional basis. Someone
should start a nationwide campaign: “‘There 7s pride
and status in housework!” This work needs to be
re-presented! These people are so important, they
have such responsibility, you count on them for so
many things, they advise you, you are a confidante.

5. How many children would you like to have?

I have six children’s names picked out, but am begin-
ning to think I would settle for four.

6. Would you plan them?
Yes, two years apart.

7. De vou approve or disapprove of birth control?
Approve.

Should it be legal to provide birth-control literature to
those who wish it?

Yes.

8. Do you think there should be a‘‘ double standard” in
respect to sex—as between young unmarried women and
young unmarried men?

I don’t believe in sexual freedom before marriage for
either men or women; but since a young man is sup-
posed to have his fling, and isn’t as emotional about
premarital sex as a girl, the consequences for him are
less serious, whereas for a girl it often means heart-
break. However, very few young men today object to
marrying a girl who isn’t a virgin, provided she
hasn’t been promiscuous.

9. Suppose a man who happens to be wealthy gets mar-
ried; should his wife have an equal right to spend his
money? How about a woman who happens to be
wealthy; should her husband have an equal right to
spend her money?

My first reaction was that a man would and should
put his money into the common pool, whereas the
woman should hang on to hers. On second thought, I
think each of them should keep their money, but not
be stingy with it.

10. As you look at your married friends, how important
is money to a successful marriage?

I’m not aware of much dissension over money, and
among my friends it’s seldom discussed.

11. Again thinking about families you know, is there
much disagreement over money problems?

Women seem to have an equal voice with men in
spending family income, arnong my acquaintances.

12. Do youthink that money is likely tobe abig problem
in your own married life?

I would definitely discuss with my future husband
how we're going to handle money so as to prevent

~~ ewe

2D. ie 6g a mes ee, ame

JANUARY, 1962

if she is promiscuous, it is just as important
that a young man does not go wrong.”

“T feel both the male and female should be
pure before marriage. They can both learn
together; neither needs previous knowledge.”

“Our country is getting carried away with
the idea that ‘nothing is good unless it has
sex.’ This is very obvious of today’s movies,
books, and so on.”

““A man doesn’t want a used woman when
he is married and a woman doesn’t want a
used man.”

“Having free sexual life, I feel, cheapens a
basically lovely part of life. It takes the em-
phasis off love and places it on sex for the
sake of sex.”

| “My boyfriend and I have, together, de-
veloped a wholesome attitude to sex and an
understanding for the well-being of both of us
_ which deepens our relationship. He demands
- nothing from me which is against my princi-
_ ples, and I, in turn, give him my respect and
_ devotion.”

THERE WAS VARIETY
TO THEIR REASONS:

“T greatly respect the man who combines sex
with the love that comes in marriage and re-
fuses to seek it elsewhere. Though there will
- always be a double standard, I hope to teach
' my sons the value of sex with love and the
relative lesser value of sex sought for its own
sake.”

“T think that young unmarried men and

women should have a good deal of respect
for sex. I know a few girls who ‘had to get

married’ and most of their marriages just
didn’t work out.”

“TI know I don’t want my husband to have
been with anyone else before. I think this
should be a part of marriage, with each of the
partners discovering each other, and not
having had previous relations.”

“Some people give the argument, ‘Would
you buy a pair of shoes without trying them
on?’ My answer to this is, “Would you buy a
pair of used shoes and pay full price!”

MANY ENDORSED THE
SPECIAL RESPONSIBILITY IN SEX
THAT IS A WOMAN’S:

“One of the greatest things a woman can
give to her husband is the virginity proof that

she hasn’t loved anyone as strongly as she
loves him.”

“Girls especially should have a great deal
of self-control, seeing quite a few boys don’t.”

“Emotionally, most women desire to give
themselves to only one man.”

*“A woman has much more to lose thana man
if she does not live by a stricter moral code.”

“Quite often, it is only the moral standards
of women which prevent more immorality
than already exists.”

A LARGE NUMBER OF YOUNG
WOMEN WERE OPENLY OUTRAGED
BY A DOUBLE STANDARD THAT
DISCRIMINATED AGAINST THEM:

“It is unfair that a woman is not respected
for having affairs and men get away with it.”

““Men assume the right to sully other young
women, yet they want to marry a virgin.”

“This serves to degrade the women while
the men are free to flaunt around gaily with-
out the least bit of responsibility.”

“The consequences of sexual freedom are—
rightly or wrongly—less severe for a man.
However, a man who is lax in sexual behavior
implies the existence of a woman who is
similarly lax.”

“Most women are gullible and will, sooner
or later, fall for a line. This always hurts the
girls but never the boys. This is neither fair
nor right.”

“The man has come to regard the whole
matter much too casually and he can’t under-
stand why the woman can’t dismiss the conse-
quences just as easily. You feel really lucky
when you run into a guy who has decided to
keep that standard for himself, regardless of
his opportunities.”

‘“A woman has every right to expect her
husband to be as chaste as she. Men are not
as incapable of controlling their emotions as
they would lead women to believe.”

**A boy wants his bride to be a virgin and
a girl feels that her husband should be one
also.”

““No unmarried man who has had an affair
should think lower of an unmarried woman
who has also had an affair.”

“The notion that men need experience is a
lot of bologna. Nature should be able to tell
them what to do on a wedding night if they
are innocent.”

THOUGH MANY PROTESTED
THE DOUBLE STANDARD WAS
UNFAIR, SOMEWHAT FEWER
FELT THAT SEXUAL EXPERIENCE
WAS PERMISSIBLE,

EVEN NECESSARY, FOR MEN:

“Young men should not be condemned for
relieving their feelings with women who are
paid for this job. The men suffer no conse-
quences.”

““T suppose as a woman I should condemn
the double standard, but I frankly don’t mind
it. Experience on the part of the male often
makes for a less traumatic wedding night. Al-
lowing the female the same privileges would,
however, serve only to break down our family
as a social institution.”

“Woman has an unwanted pregnancy to
fear. Men are innately prone to want variety,
should therefore get varied experience before
marriage, so will settle down after marriage.”

“Since there is a difference between man
and woman, there should be a difference in
the standards in the unmarried woman and
unmarried man. The woman should be sweet
and innocent and watch her morals. The male
has the right to run around and be what he
feels.”

“There isn’t as much significance attached
to the purity of the boy. And in most cases,
I believe a little premarital experience doesn’t
hurt, and sometimes helps.”

“Girls definitely should not exercise the
same ‘freedom’ as young men, but the de-
cision must be their own and not one made by
society, church or elders.”

DI PIETRO

wrangling later. Joint bank accounts get into a mess, I
think. Separate bank accounts are better, even if hers
includes only a household allowance. This gives her a
chance to save for presents or special needs. Who ac-
tually writes the household bills is unimportant.
Some couples I know never write a check above a cer-
tain amount—say $100—without consulting each
other first.

13. Do you choose yoyr, own clothes? Do you have an
allowance ? Or earn your own money? Does your
mother agree with your choice?

_Tearn my own money and buy my own clothes. My
mother dresses very smartly and we have the same
clothes tastes.

114. Do you think women dress as well after they get
married as they do before? Do you feel that a woman
should have a definite budget to spend on clothes after
she is married?

| A housewife with a young husband can rarely afford
|, to dress as well as she did when working. However,
she should realize that her looks can be an asset to her
!| husband. She needn’t be extravagant, but she should
always try to look neat and well put together and
‘| never be seen in stained or sloppy clothes or hair
curlers—ugh! People judge her husband by how well
she looks. Also, her husband likes to feel proud of her
appearance. How much she spends on herself depends
on how the family needs stack up against her needs—
which, however, shouldn’t be neglected.

15. Would you like to see the men you know take more
caren the way they dress? In what ways do you think
they should dress better?

Women are generally better dressed. Most men pay
little attention if their socks and ties and shirts clash.

With more neatness and better color co-ordination,
they would look immeasurably better.

16. What beauty aids do you use? Daily? For a big
date? Do you feel you make the most of your looks, or do
you wish you had more help and advice?

I use no face creams. During the daytime, a light
foundation, powder, lipstick, eyebrow pencil and
mascara. For a big date I add an eye liner and eye
shadow. I’d like to be able to afford facials.

17. What are your four favorite items of food right now?

Chocolate mousse, raw oysters, a raw banana spread
with peanut butter and mayonnaise (from my child-
hood), and New York hot dogs sold from an outdoor
cart, served in a warm roll smothered with hot relish
and sauerkraut.

18. In general, how would you rate the meals at your
house? After you get married do you expect to serve
better or different food?

I’m a good cook and eat a well-balanced meal even
when eating by myself; no changes anticipated.

19. Would you describe the kind of house you would like
to have after you get married? That is, your “‘dream
house.”

A very large two-story house on a dune by the sea
with a very large porch. Sunken bathrooms with
mosaic tile (real) and heated towel racks. Music ev-
erywhere—a central record player and speakers in
every room. The living room would have a simply
enormous walk-in fireplace with lots of cushions in
front (I love to sit on the floor). Off-white walls;
antique furniture mixed with modern, lots of yellow,
burnt orange and persimmon. Beamed ceiling. A glass
wall overlooking the sea. Contemporary paintings;

For Carol’s complete story, see How America Spends Its Money on page 16.

very colorful. A big exquisite chessboard with exotic
chess pieces, like buffalo horn on alabaster.

20. Just in general, would you say you are more re-
ligious than your parents, or less? Would you say that
religion is a great help to you in your daily life?

I’m not any more or less religious than my parents. I
attend church infrequently—the last time was a year
ago when my father died. I found the church service a
comfort at that time. I believe in a Divine all-power-
ful Being and a pattern to life, but religion is not a
daily help to me. Whenever I take an airplane, I say a
short prayer on takeoff and on landing, and that’s
about the extent of religion in my life.

21. What has been most help to you in establishing your
own moral and ethical code? Books? School? Church?
Friends? Home?

My father taught me honor and integrity by his ex-
ample and with many talks. Both my parents, being
Southern, were highly emotional on the subject of
Negroes, and intolerant toward them, an attitude my
brother and I do not share at all. Perhaps this was re-
bellion on our part, or perhaps it’s just because our
generation today is basically tolerant, and this is
something we learn at school and from one another.

22. To what extent does happiness depend on following
a strict moral code?

I believe that a good life brings its reward in happi-
ness, but I also think you have to be wily and smart.
Why be naive? Most of the businessmen I deal with
are quick to press an advantage and you learn to play
according to their rules. If it’s a question of being spit
upon or doing the spitting, I don’t intend to be on the
receiving end. In the garment industry you’ve got to
tread on a few toes occasionally to survive, but I don’t
believe in inflicting serious damage.

REGIONAL
RECIPE
SEARCH

Do you have, in your family, a recipe

you know is representative of the food
eaten in your community? One, per-
haps, that is based on an especially
delicious local product? Regional
cookbooks are filled with

tional” recipes that often ignore truly

“tradi-

regional cooking. Did you know that
the colorful dishes of Greece and
Portugal are a part of our New Eng-
land heritage? Many cities in this
part of the United States have citi-
zens of Greek and Portuguese an-
cestry. Across the country in the state
of Washington, the Eskimo, the Jap-
anese and the Chinese have long in-
fluenced the food habits of the people
living there. It has been difficult to
pin down actual regional foods, as
separate from just traditional foods.
The Ladies’ Home Journal would like
to know what the people of each
region consider their own recipes. So,
region by region, we are asking you to
join our Regional Recipe Search—by
sending us recipes you know belong
to your section of the country; reci-
pes that reflect the character of its
people, the climate and the produce
of the land. We are beginning with
six states in the Southeastern section.
Next month we will ask for recipes
from another section, until all fifty
states have been heard from.

Ladies of Alabama, Georgia, Mis-
sissippi, North Carolina, South Caro-
lina, Tennessee—do you have a fa-
vorite family recipe? One that belongs
strictly to your section of the coun-
try? Will you send a copy of it
to us? Mail it before the end of
JANUARY 1962. Write on one
side of the page only, and print your
name and address on the back. We
cannot return it, so do not send us
your original! At a later date these
recipes may be used to make a book-
let on regional cooking in the U.S.A.
Some may be used in Journal regional
food articles. For each recipe we print
in the Journal and the booklet, we
will pay $5.00 for entire publishing
Mail
Home

rights to it.
Ladies’
Recipe Search, P.O. Box

your recipe to:
Regional
3068, Grand

New York, New

Journal,

Central Station,
York.

“It is more important for the woman to
maintain her chastity because that is the only
thing she has to give her husband after taking
his name, freedom and the rest of his life.”

SO FEW THEY WOULD

HARDLY COUNT SUPPORTED
GREATER SEXUAL FREEDOM
FOR MEN AND WOMEN

THAN OUR SOCIETY CONDONES:

“Why should girls have to save themselves
for their husbands? Possibly a marriage could
be more successful if both mates knew the
ropes.”

“The idea of the girl being ‘allowed’ to pet,
then no further, is a ridiculous notion of pre-
serving virginity. I’m sure that the girl that
has full relations with a partner with whom
mutual respect exists and ‘loses’ her virginity
is no less desirable.”

‘‘Women have an equal right to sexual hap-
piness. The double standard leads to hypocrisy
and guilt and sexually inhibited females.”

“First of all I believe everyone’s sex stand-
ard should be his own. Sex is a physical neces-
sity to some girls more than other girls, just as
it is to some boys more than others. ‘How far’
someone should go is a decision which must
be reached by oneself.”

“I believe that young couples anticipating
marriage should under law live as man and
wife for a maximum period of one year. They
should know within a few months if they are
suited to live together for the rest of their lives.”

WHAT KIND OF HOUSE
WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE IN?

If there is a woman in America who is un-
sure of her answer to that question, she is
scarce. Dream-house definitions ranged from
the fluffy-ruffle school (“I want a Cinderella-
type house with fluffy ruffled curtains and a
baby-doll bed with a canopy”) to the rarer
(“I would like one of those exotic houses up
on stilts among the trees.”’). A number of wom-
en began with a dreamed of feature, which a
house, eventually, would be built around: “A
daylight basement to be used for both projects
and parties.” “Sliding glass doors onto
a patio.” ““Exposed beams” “Danish
furniture’... .“‘Music piped intoevery room’...
“Planned so you don’t have to walk through
the living room to get to the bedrooms.”

One of the most frequently mentioned
single features was the heart of any home: the
kitchen. Again and again the girls demanded
a bigger, brighter and better-equipped kitchen,
usually, than their mothers’: “The kitchen
must be sizable and readily accessible to the
dining room” “Large and sunny with a
built-in stove” . “A terrace adjoining the
kitchen so I could watch the children and keep
up with my housework”’ . “Spacious and
bright with the smells of fresh- baked cook-
1S: |; “Paneling with built-in stove, oven,
washer and dryer” ‘Lots of space and cup-
boards, white with a large circular table and
captain’s chairs.”

A number of others set location before all
other considerations: ‘I would like to live in
a suburban area, near a city of approximately
100,000 population. This would give cultural
opportunities and yet a feeling of not being
hemmed in.” Or, often: “Somewhere in
Suburbia.” And a young lady from the Middle
West: “I would love to live on a farm of 1000
to 1500 acres.”

Not untypical was the thoughtful 19-year-
old from Massachusetts: “I would like to
live in a growing suburban community with a
progressive school system and facilities for
cultural growth and entertainment, adequate
shopping district, tree-lined streets, and play-
grounds for younger children. I would not
wish to live in a development.”

Not even a house was big enough to deny
woman the right to change her mind: ‘‘De-
pending on my mood, the home could range
from contemporary to Cape Cod to Grecian,”
said a pink and lovely Vermont beauty. “‘I
have two dream houses,” said a petite Michi-
gan girl, only 16 years old; ‘‘one for just after

I am married and one in, say, five years or so.””

A few of our young ladies took to heart the
lessons learned from observation: ‘‘Our living
room has to be planned to the very inch. I’ve
had a father who constantly brings home
things that don’t fit in.” One or two antici-
pated problems: “I want the walls to be
painted in colors of my own choice, not my
husband’s.”’ Only one expressed a grim sign of
the times: “I want a good tight home with a
basement which can be converted into a bomb
shelter.”

And so few they scarcely deserve represen-
tation: “As long as it’s easy to keep clean and
has a kitchen with a refrigerator and an oven
and running water, I don’t care. In fact, the
refrigerator and oven are not really necessary.”

One 18-year-old was not going to carry a
mop all day: “I want it to be reasonably
messy. I don’t mean dirty. I mean /ived in.”
She wasn’t alone: “I can’t be comfortable in
a house where everything is in its place.”

A SWEET LITTLE NEST

These, all in their way, are exceptions, for
most of our girls fairly burst out with their
complete dream-house descriptions. Often
eloquent, sometimes touching, and always
thoughtful, they show how deeply important
to a woman is her house.

“T have always imagined my dream home
to be an old-fashioned type of home, located
in a quiet rural area. I have always dreamed of
it being on a hill with a lot of land where my
children could play. I must add a large porch

THE NEW MARCH OF DIMES
Y

|
Ss
U
?
THE NATIONAL FOUNDATION

where my husband and I could sit and watch
the children while we discussed our problems
and joys alike.”

“I would like a lot of finished wood for
warmth and beauty. I would use Mincan in-
lays for hardware, and Danish furniture,
mostly by Hans Wagner, along with Amer-
ican antiques. My living room would be long
with a high ceiling of exposed beams. I would
have a large fireplace on one wall, with a lot of
copper and brass around and on the face of the
fireplace. I would have Moroccan carpets, with
some areas in cinnamon tones. My kitchen
would be very like old Virginian ones—fire-
place and oven.”

“My dream home will be out of the city yet
in communication distance. One entire wall of
its spacious living room will be glass over-
looking the broad and colorful Platte Valley
near Omaha. The home will be made of
weathered stone and shingles. It will have a
flat roof, sloping up over the hill and be
braced with beams diagonally against the
hills. The materials in the living room will be
natural and rustic and dark in color. The floor
will be large flagstones. The walls of pine or
stone. One wall will be fireplace. Copper and
gold fixtures will be found throughout the
house.”

“Should be away from the road on a big
hill with a beautiful green yard and a white
fence around it. The living room should have
a gold rug and walls with a white couch
(sectional). Love big potted plants at the side
of a very large fireplace. A stereo adds pleas-
ure. The house should have lots of lights in-
side and out. A patio entered by glass sliding
doors would add to the home.”

“As to height and all that jazz, I can’t make
any definite statements. I would like to live in
a penthouse apartment, furniture in Early
American or Japanese décor. Special features
are too numerous to mention, but come and
see my place! You'll be mad about it!”

“A large colonial home, set back with a
large, green pine-covered yard. I want stables
in the back and lots of acreage. I want about
12 rooms, including: a large dining hall with
beautiful chandeliers, winding staircases with
the 4 bedrooms and 2 baths upstairs, and the
den and another bathroom downstairs. The
living room wouldn’t be real big, but 1t would

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

be furnished elegantly with either Early Amer-
ican or French Provincial. It would have thick
wall-to-wall carpets as would all the rooms
except the kitchen and bathroom.”

“My dream home will be in the country on
a little hill surrounded by many trees. We will
have about 15 acres of land for raising horses.
My home will be an old two-story brick-and-
redwood style. Inside, it will consist of old
furniture and be very European in atmos-
phere. Old paintings and art objects, from
Europe, will be scattered throughout.”

“After I get married, I trust that the house
my husband has designed will be somewhat
circular or round. I would like to have a large
round back porch. The height will be between
38 and 46 feet. I want the living room about
50’x70’ with sweeping draperies. I hope toa!

have either a large basement for the children ?} |

or a spare room for their recreation activity.”

“We would prefer a big house on the tiptop
of a hill, so we could watch the night lights.
This would not have to be an exquisite house,
but a fine home, maybe an old, old ivy-cov-
ered place with tall round pillars and a circu-
lar drive. A gold-and-white bedroom has been
our dream for two years. A lavender living
room with space as the most enhancing spec-
tacle. I wish my old ‘mansion’ to be two stories
high with a half story for a third floor, with
small bright rooms and long hallways. In our
home we’ll need many fireplaces because we so
love to sit and look at the flames.”

“I don’t want sharp or dark colors in my
house in any form, but light, airy colors. Also
the décor and furnishings would have to be of
the type of materials that are easily adaptable
to children, not so that the children I plan to
have would have to adapt themselves.”

“The living room would be fairly large with
a fireplace, my furniture would be colonial,
and there would be paintings on the walls,
flowers in the vase, my children’s pictures
hung proudly for everyone to see. There
would be few, if any, knickknacks. The color
scheme would be warm, but cheery.”

“My home will be a ranch-type house. It
will be one floor, very big and done in ranch-
type furniture. It will be on about four or five
acres with horse stables, swimming pool, ten-
nis court and a pond next to my big circle
drive with the fountain in the middle.”

“T would like a stone, split-level home on the
top of a hill near the ocean on either coast,
San Francisco or somewhere in Maine. A
glass wall the entire length of the house facing
the cliff, set a great distance back from the
road. Would furnish in Danish modern. A
conversation pit in the living room with large
brightly colored cushions, probably in shades
of blue, green, turquoise, brown and pink-red.
Large stone fireplace in the living room/fam-
ily room. I would like a studio on the top
story with skylights, as I paint and write.”

“T would just like to have a plain little house
and a white picket fence around it. I would
like to live in the country. In the living room,
I would like old-fashioned furniture and a
big bear rug.”

“My dream house is in the country or the
suburbs. It is on a river or lake where the

family can swim in the summer and skate in |

the winter. Somehow, I hope it is also accessi-
ble to the cultural advantages of the big city.

The style of the house is big, friendly, open— .,)

homey.”

“T would like to live in a cottage by the sea—
white frame with blue shutters, roof, and

flowers in the front yard. A swing on the front |

porch. The interior would be warm, done in?
shades of green, yellow, blue?’

Research often confirms what common*
sense tells us. We already know a lot about
the women of America; 20 per cent of them
are our Own women, Journal women. Being
Journal women, they are younger and better
educated than women who do not read the
Journal. They have more children and more
money; they dress better, read more and bet-
ter literature, and cook better.

Forgive this self-admiring glance, but, after .
all, we’re only admiring you who hold this
magazine in your hands—and, we hope, in
your hearts. END

=— -_ Ss & =| as =

NUARY, 1962

1E YOUNG
CQUELINE KENNEDY—
31 KNEW HER

NTINUED FROM PAGE 36

“Who is coming?” they demanded.

“Just a girl who won a prize on a fashion
jgazine. You wouldn’t be interested,” I
'd them. “Now you two go outside or up-
.irs, wherever you want to be. Scoot.”
The girls had orders to stay out of the living
‘om when I was fitting a customer because it
-0 served as my fitting room.
Jackie came dashing in, laden with dresses,
shion magazines and a sketch pad. She was
| gracious as her mother, as she explained
it the ready-made dresses needed some
‘erations. After showing the dresses to me,
> brought out her own skétches—if they
‘uld be called sketches. “Squiggles’”” would
| more appropriate.
“Mother recommended you highly, Mrs.
1ea, and said you’d be able to understand
hat I want,” Jackie said with a smile, looking
/oit shy and uncertain.
“Well, I’ll do the best I can,”’ I said. “I have
eeling I can learn a lot more from you than
ucan from me. You won the prize.”
“Yes, but you do the actual doing,” she
d.
We talked about what she had done to win
ygue’s Prix de Paris. I was amused to learn
at her mother had first talked her into enter-
3 the contest and then had helped talk her
t of accepting the prize.
“Of course I made up my own mind,” she
id, “but I have spent a lot of time abroad.
's time I settled down and thought about
‘ing something constructive. And I do get
nely for the family when I’m away so long.”
“But it’s a career,” I said. ‘It’s a chance to
ve a wonderful career handed to you on a
ver platter.”
“Oh, I’ve had the experience,”’ Jackie said.
“hat was t’rrific’—she pronounced it as if
‘had no e—‘‘but I don’t know about making
sareer of fashion. It’s more of a hobby.”
| Her voice was even more unusual, now that
ieard it without the distortion of the tele-
one. It had a liquid sound, like water cas-
‘ding. And it had a sound of suppressed
ighter, as if any moment she might break
| t into ripples of hilarity.

As Jackie went behind the screen to change
ko one of the dresses she had brought for
modeling, I thought how surprised she
uld be if she knew how much I already knew
out her and the other members of the family,
‘tle things I had learned from her mother and
her customers who were her friends.

Just as there was a Compleat Angler, to my
ind Mrs. Auchincloss was, of all my cus-
mers, the Compleat Mother. Without in the
ast smothering them, she took an intense
terest in her children and gloried in each of
eir triumphs, small or large. Jt was her sense
‘humor which helped her with the problems
‘adjusting the home life of three separate
ts of children. First there were Jackie and
2e, the children of her first husband, Jack
duvier, for whom Jackie was named. Then
ere were Janet and James Auchincloss, the
‘ildren of her second marriage; Tom, Nina
id Hugh Jr., the children of Hugh Auchincloss
his two previous marriages.

vackie seems to have been the most colorful
ild of the family and had, in 1948, been
“med Debutante of the Year by Cholly
‘nickerbocker, the society writer. He had
»mmented that Jacqueline Bouvier was the

‘st debutante to deserve the crown since it
Ee worn by Brenda Frazier a few years
lier,

In her old pictures debutante Jackie had
orn her hair like Brenda Frazier’s, parted on
e side and pulled flat across the top of her
vad. But as she came toward me, I noticed
e had graduated to a more casual feather
it. Though she was tall—five feet seven—it
oked properly proportioned and individual-
‘ic.

She had a figure like a model, long and lean.
‘knew that once she had been chubby, but
) one could accuse her of that now. Her neck
AS swanlike—a portrait painter’s delight—
id she held her head high.

“How would you like this fixed?’ I asked
and found that Jackie wanted her waist nipped
in more and the bustline emphasized.

Next I got ready to translate her sketch into
a gown. She explained exactly what each
squiggle meant—a seam here, a swoosh of the
skirt to the back, and a tricky banding there
at the top of the bodice. Soon I found myself
caught up in her enthusiasm and telling her,
quite excitedly, how the dress could be made.

I asked her to remove her dress and slip so
that I could make my muslin pattern. Then it
was Jackie’s turn to be surprised. “‘How in
the world do you do that?” she asked.

I had developed my own technique for giv-
ing a dress perfect fit. This was to make, first,
a muslin skin-tight covering on the person I
was fitting. This established the figure in all its
proportions. Then I cut out in muslin the pat-
tern of each dress.

“This is how I know what I’m doing when I
cut into the material,” I said. ‘‘And I see that
you really know good material.”” She had
brought some beautiful heavy white embroid-
ered satin.

“It came from France,”’ she said, smiling at
my appreciation.

I tried to determine the color of Jackie’s
eyes. They looked light brown, yet they had
other colors in them, too, and seemed almost
hazel. Later I was to see them described as
anything from light brown to gray-green.

“Where did you get your fraining in dress-
making, Mrs. Rhea?’’ Jackie asked.

“I didn’t. I’ve never had a course, but I’m
not proud of it. Actually, the only training
I’ve had is a course in hatmaking which I
took a few years ago. I had a notion I might
like to go into the hat business.”

“Well, if you had, I wouldn’t be here,” she
said emphatically. “‘I can’t get excited about
hats. They complicate a costume and take
away from the look of unity.”

“You hate hats?”

“No; that’s a strong word. Let’s say they’re
fine for church.”

I continued to pin the muslin in place. While
working, I commented on how lucky Jac-
queline was to have a figure like a model right
out of a Parisian salon.

I was amazed to learn that she didn’t think
she was perfect or ideal, and in fact was quite
critical of herself. She wished her feet were
smaller, her waist slimmer, her bust larger and
her face more oval. I felt like spanking her.
Here she stood—the most beautiful girl who
had walked through my door, and she was
beset by small dissatisfactions, just like any-
one else. x

“If I had your face and form I think I'd
head for Hollywood,” I said.

“Or home,” she said, laughing. “I’m late.”

At least, 1 thought, this girl will never be con-
ceited. 1 unpinned her and when she returned,
dressed again, I noted her poise and perfett
carriage. This is the secret of elegance, 1
thought. The important thing is to present a
picture of confidence and serenity to the world.

I asked Jackie to sign my guest book. She
wrote in a strong, artistic hand, ‘November
3, 1951. Jacqueline Bouvier, Merrywood,
McLean, Virginia, WO-4020.”

As I saw her gather up her things and leave
as quickly as she had come, I thought, This
girl is unusual. This girl, I hope, will come often.

A familiar pattern soon evolved: Jackie
would dash in and show me a design. ‘I have
at rrific idea for a gown. I think it should have
this kind of a top,’ she would say as she
pulled out a mere suggestion of a sketch.
‘The skirt should be like this,’ she would add,
doodling with her pencil. ““You understand,
don’t you, Mrs. Rhea?”

And of course I did. Between the two of us
we would soon crystallize the idea of how the
dress should be made. Jacqueline shared my
love for fabulous materials and colors. Fre-
quently she brought me materials that had
come from abroad and together we would
work out a design.

She wore a lot of black in suits and daytime
clothes, but not for evening. Pink—hot pink—
was her favorite color, to match her lipstick. I
noticed her beautiful, long eyelashes. Her
complexion had a transparency; it was so per-
fect and her skin tones were warm, blending
well with her chestnut-brown hair. The pink

she liked so well did the most for her coloring.
She was a joy to work with, for she could look
at something and make a quick decision—
yes...no...alittle higher... an inch more
to the right.

Other customers would sometimes come
back endlessly, complaining, ‘‘It still isn’t
right. I think I want it this way instead.’ But
not Jackie. She would say, “‘It’s t’rrific!”’ It was
her special expression.

The way muslin could be used to decide
exactly what cut looked best fascinated Jackie.
One day, muffled in muslin, she experimented
with necklines and shoulder lines.

“TI definitely look better with this sleeveless
effect,” she said, looking in the mirror.

“Yes.” I saw what she meant. “It’s a pity
the style isn’t that way for daytime.”

Jackie got a magazine from her stack of
things on the couch. It was my first good look
at a French fashion magazine.

“Look in here, Mrs. Rhea.’’ She flipped
open a few pages. “Look at the variety. You'll
find almost any look you want. Why can’t you
wear a sleeveless dress for daytime?”

“IT don’t know why,”’ I said. “It just isn’t
being done.”

THE
OVERGROWN
MEADOW

By DIONIS COFFIN RIGGS

I'm sorry, ma'am, I've been so long
About getting here with my mowing
machine,
But it’s just as well
| waited a spell.
Now the birds have finished their
nesting.

| saw two quail come out of your
field
With little ones like soft
bumblebees;
The song sparrows used
Those cedar trees;
And meadow larks built in the
wood-grass.

As I leafed through the magazine, amazed at
the galaxy of clothes the French were wearing
and the extreme look of French dresses, Jackie
stood working with the muslin, determining
how deep an armhole sheuld be cut.

“Yes,” she said, “I like the slim sleeveless
look. I think the shoulder should come about
here.”’ She pointed to the tip of the shoulder
bone. “And I think it should barely cover the
neck bone here,”’ as she ran her finger along
the ridge of the bone.

Some time later, she ordered such a dress
for daytime and I remember I suggested a little
jacket to cover her arms.

““No, that would be losing the whole point,”
she said. “I'll just have the dress.”’

Even in November, 1951, when Jackie first
came to my shop, I noticed that she seemed to
ignore the fads of the moment. Her hair never
looked harshly pulled back, as was the fashion
of the day, with nary a curl on the forehead;
Jackie would try to soften her forehead line.
Choker beads, tight around the throat; of two,
three and even four strands, were almost a
uniform; Jackie never wore them, preferring
the more dignified look of a longer single or
double strand of pearls. Somehow, in follow-
ing her own thinking, she seemed always to
be a little ahead of fashion’s decrees. Some
people are fashion followers. Jackie was never
intimidated into wearing what others were
wearing.” Some sixth sense told her where
fashion’s trend was leading.

Maybe, in studying the French magazines,
she was guided by instinct to know which
of the styles would survive. I don’t know. But
I soon realized that, if I saw some new idea

on Jackie, I would eventually find it becoming
the accepted mode.

And, because of Jackie, I began buying
French fashion magazines myself. L’Officiel
was one of her favorites and L’ Art et la Mode.
I also got one named Femina luxe. It was an
expensive habit, because these magazines in
America cost something like $10 an issue. It
was a blessing that they did not come out
monthly, but only for each season.

Jackie would try to talk me into studying
French. “You could make it a family affair
and just talk French at the table.’ She told me
how she had got practice in corversation at
home where, at certain meals, if you forgot
and spoke a word of English you had to for-
feit a coin. I determined I would study
French one day—and I’m still determined.

I noticed that Jackie backed away from
certain colors—green, gold, yellow and brown.
She liked white, beige and black, pale yellow
and, of course, pink—the brighter the better.

I nearly always wore red dresses on bad-
weather days to lift my own morale and that
of my customers. Jackie said once, “I love to
see you in red. It does something for my spirits
on this foul day.’ She told me how it had
depressed her as a child to have to wear a
school uniform with its sameness of color.

The major problems Jacqueline had in
dressing were her wide, wide-set eyes and the
rather square cut of her face. Because of these
features she had to avoid square necklines,
square shoulders, and squarish hairdos which
would make her eyes look still farther apart
and her face more squarish. The wonderful
thing about Jackie’s eyes was that, with the
right hairdo, they were her most exciting and
beautiful feature and set her completely apart
from everyone else. If any one feature made
her memorable, it was her lovely brownish-
hazel eyes. She needed and used a slanting or
irregular line in her hairdo or dress. Sometimes
she achieved the off-center effect merely with
a brooch on the shoulder.

Ta never forget the experience I had with
one of Jackie’s dresses. It caused me to look
on her more as a friend than as a customer.

It was in early December when she rushed
in with a sketch, yards of bright pink peau de
soie and yards and yards of silver braid. The
braid was on two big spindles. Her design, as
we finally worked it out, called for a strapless
dress, very fitted, with a very full skirt and a
difficult design of braid sewn in absolutely
straight lines all over it. Jackie needed the
dress for a special occasion and I promised
to have it finished in time for her to pick it up
the morning of the event. Suddenly both of
my daughters became ill with a virus infection.
I remember I was sewing on the braid the night
before the dress was due, with the dress draped
over the ironing board. Thesilver lines stretched
on endlessly. Before my weary eyes the pattern
looked like a maze from which I would never
find my way out. The glitter of the silver played
tricks with my eyes. Why, oh why, | asked my-
self, did I ever get into this dressmaking busi-
ness ? Surely there must be some other way to
support my daughters.

Every once in a while I went in to look at
the girls. At about eleven o’clock they both
seemed worse and I called the doctor. I was
grateful that he came on that cold, sleety night.

When he was ready to leave, he glanced at
the billows of pink and silver on my ironing
board. “Are you still working?’ he asked.
Then searchingly, “‘How do you feel?”

“All right,’ I answered, “except that I’m
worried about the girls and I have to finish
this dress before tomorrow morning.”

He left, shaking his head doubtfully.

I finished the dress, but I woke up at five
o’clock in the morning—only a few hours after
I had gone to bed—and called the doctor.
Again he came through the cold at an un-
earthly hour and found the girls improving,
but ordered me to stay in bed.

Jacqueline arrived jauntily some hours
later to pick up the dress. She put it on and
came to my bedroom to show me how it
looked. I tried to keep her out, for fear she
might catch my virus, but she insisted that
didn’t worry her. In fact, she sat down on the
edge of my bed to chat and keep me company.

Never before had such a thing happened to
me—a customer with such concern for my

Tay 72

welfare. I felt a little choked up—and it wasn’t
all due to my cold. Soon I was forgetting all
about my misery
adventures in Europe. I was no longer in my
sickbed but strolling down the streets of Paris,
surrounded by flower stalls, so vividly did she
describe the scenes. The flowers of Europe had
made a great impression on her and on me
also as she talked about them. Real? I could

almost smell them. And in my mind’s eyes I sat
at a sidewalk café, sipping an apéritif, and
lamenting with her that Washington, D.C.,
had none of these charming outdoor cafés.

o be my doctor,”
per cent better just

“I wish I could bribe 5
I said. “I feel a hundre«
listening to you.”

“T should be thanking you for working on
my dress when you must have felt miserable,”
she said. “You shouldn’t have done it. But
I'll think about you when I wear it tonight
and it will make my Christmas holidays.”

The pink of this dress, I soon began to
realize, was her special trademark. There was
bound to be a pink dress—generally a bright
pink—in every batch of clothes she brought to
me for remodeling.

Right after the Christmas holidays I noticed
a lovely ring on Jackie’s engagement finger,
and asked her about it. She told me that she
had just become engaged to John Husted, of
New York, but that the announcement was
still to be made.

I heard of this engagement from another
source, too, a customer who was Mr. Husted’s
Mrs. Ellery Husted. Mrs. Husted was
very pleased at the idea of Jackie’s becoming
a part of her family.

For the next few months Jackie was busy
commuting back and forth to New York. But
she didn’t seem excited enough. I had the feel-
ing Jackie had decided it was time for her to
be serious and was trying to let her head rule
her heart.

And two or three months later I discovered
that the ring was not on her finger. I hesitated
to ask, but she volunteered that she had just
decided to call it off. Jackie seemed more
relieved than unhappy about it. Anyway, she

and laughing at her tales of

didn’t have time for tears because she had
got herself a brand-new, glamorous job.

Soon after the new year arrived, she came
flying in one day with a big camera slung over
shoulder and a shoulder bag over the
She was bubbling with delight. “I have
a job,” she said. “I’m the ‘Inquiring Photog-
rapher’ for the Times-Herald !”

I could hardly believe my ears. “Congratu-
lations,” I said. I went to get the newspaper
lying on my table, and looked at the column.
“Why is ‘photographer’ spelled wrong?” I
asked. “It’s spelled ‘photografer’ here.”

Jackie explained that the Times-Herald was
campaigning to get people to spell words the
way they sound.

“And why don’t I see your by-line?”’

“Tt will come,” she said. “‘It will come.”

“Well, that shouldn’t take long. You have
just gained another reader.”

one
other.

NI
Newent Jacqueline’s column became my
“‘must” reading every day. It was remarkable
to me that a young woman who had mingled
only with society had chosen to attempt to
make her way in the workaday world—to suc-
ceed on her own merits. And it was also re-
markable that she, who was basically shy, de-
veloped the courage to stop strangers of every
age and walk of life on the street, how she
understood their interests, and how she was
able to blend seriousness with comedy.

When she was questioning people in George-
town—or even in my shop—I noticed that she
never talked down to them. She never traded
on her name or position, referring to herself
only as “the Inquiring Photographer.”

In one column she asked Jimmy Stewart,
the movie star, what his secret ambition was
and he confessed that, in his heart, he'd
wanted to be a clown.

Another day she had asked men if they were
more interested in sports or in politics. The
consensus was that, even in the nation’s capi-
tal, they were more interested in sports.

I really had to laugh when Jacqueline asked
a group of men what kind of clothes they
thought women looked best in. Barnee, the

famous orchestra leader at the Shoreham,
insisted that women should wear green dresses
with full skirts. He added, “The more frills and
fluffs you can put on a dress, the better. And
I think women should have long hair.”

Jackie came swooping in one fine spring day
wearing a most devilish smile. “I’ve come to
interview you,”’ she said. “I want to ask you a
question.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned. “I’m just a dress-
maker. Who cares what I think?”

“People are just as interested in what you
have to say as what anyone else says. What
are you giving up for Lent?”

“T hate to talk about it. Tell me what some-
one else said. I don’t think I can measure up.”

“IT don’t think your competition is that ter-
rible,” she said. “Here is one of my inter-
views—with Janet Auchincloss, aged six.”

“Let me hear what Janet is giving up for
Lent.”

“Well,” said Jackie, “it says here, ‘I’ll give
up fighting with my brother James. I slap him
really hard sometimes when he won’t sit still
at TV and keeps jumping up and down in
front of Howdy Doody. And then he bawls.
But he better stop tormenting my dolls and
grabbing them out of the chair and throwing
them on the floor or I won’t be able to give up
slapping him for long!’ ”’

A few days later, there on page 19 of the
Washington Times-Herald, was my picture,
along with Janet’s. Unfortunately, Jackie
didn’t try to improve my quote. It sounded

just like me and I groaned as I read:

“‘T suppose I should give up sweets. I started
to cut them out in the beginning of Lent, but
then I stopped. It makes me mad to think
I broke it when I really didn’t want a piece of
candy much. It wasn’t even good candy. Now
it seems pointless to give it up again, but I
think I'll pull myself together for one more
try.”

The funny thing was that just talking about
it made me really give up candy and I’ve hardly
touched it since.

Jackie walked as if she knew where she was
going. To me walking, more than anything

)
LADIES’ HOME JOURN/|, yi

else, expresses one’s personality. If peop o
have a lackadaisical way of moving, you kno} “”
they have no ambition. She held her shoulde|
back and her head high. It all added up to)|
forthright and capable personality. a
Jackie did a lot of ‘“‘walking” to get a bi) *®
line. yi
She was all over the map. She attended!)
spelling bee. (The hardest word was “‘chry |“
anthemum,” which was later to be the nan) ™
of my new dog.) She went to the Folg) “
Shakespearean Library to find out which |}*"
the master’s words were still applicable to ti)
day’s world. One person said, ‘I don’t eye)!"
have to stop to think. It is, ‘What fools the, us
mortals be.’ ”’ yo
A few days after she interviewed me sl!"
was asking members of the male spegie |"
*“‘When did you discover that women are a
the weaker sex?” .
Then it happened—her first by-line! Man" us
26, 1952, was the date. She had asked peop: mk
if they had any special superstitions. One pe}
son who said he kept watching for the nur!|®
ber of crows he saw in one flock recited a litt}
rhyme I couldn’t get out of my head:

Shi

|
“One crow, sorrow; } -
Two crows, joy;
Three crows, a wedding ;
Four crows, a boy.”

The next time I saw Jacqueline I congrati
lated her that the crows had finally done th
trick.
I told her, “Your column is very edi
cational.”

“T’m glad of that, Mrs. Rhea,” she said will
mock seriousness.

“Well, I’m not,” I retorted. “I don’t hay
time to look for crows out of the window ar
I find myself repeating the jingle to the rhyii
of my sewing. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Tl work up one for the sewing-machir
rhythm,” she laughed.

“Thanks.”

Looking back, how carefree was that sprin
of 1952, how relaxed and happy-go-luck
Children bounding in and out on their wayt

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JANUARY, 1962

school. Customers talking and laughing. Me
swapping anecdotes about my children with
mothers like Mrs. Auchincloss. Jackie shop-
ping in the New York stores—Lord and Tay-
lor, Bonwit’s, Sak’s Fifth Avenue and
Bergdorf’s—and having the dresses sent
directly to me so that I could go to work on
them, since I had the muslin pattern of her
figure. She was a little long-waisted and some-
times the waistline needed adjustment.

Jackie would arrive, ring the bell and let her-
self in very casually. More often than not I
would be downstairs in the workroom, busy
at my sewing machine. When Id hear her
quick little rings I'd hurry upstairs. Other
customers were often late. Other customers
would have a million excuses why they
couldn’t make it on time.

She would telephone early in the morning
to make her appointment. She would say,
“Mrs. Rhea’—she always called me that,
while everyone else called me Miss Rhea—*I
wonder if you’d be able to see me this after-
noon about two or three. I have to be out
your way anyway.”

GIFT IN
THE MAIL

By EVELYN ADAMS

The tin flag is up now; there was
a year

That you came to me when the
mail came in.

I'd wait for a shadow to appear

In one cell of a honeycombed wall;
I'd hear

My heart choking on adrenalin.

Now | watch a box by the birches;
though

A bill or booklet is all it will be,

You don’t realize that you mail a
glow,

| thought I'd forgotten long ago,

When | learn there’s an envelope
there for me.

I always had many appointments at that
time of day. But I would try to oblige Jac-
queline. “Well, I already have a two- and a
three-o’clock appointment,” I might answer,
“but you're so easy to fit that I think I can
Squeeze you in at two-forty.”

“That will be trrific. I'll be there.”

And she was. o=-2

[never saw Jackie excited in an emergency
except once and then I was amazed, under the
‘circumstances, at how little agitated she was.
She came hurrying in and asked, “Mrs. Rhea,
where can I get a pitcher of water?”’ I pointed
to the kitchen. She was in and out in a minute,
carrying the water and heading out the front
door.

Curious to know who needed water, I ran to
the door in time to see her calmly pouring the
water into her car—through the window.
Smoke billowed out.

“T set my car on fire with a cigarette,’ she
said, smiling, as she passed me on her way to
the kitchen again. “I think one more pitcher
and I. won't have to call the fire department.”

Talk about calm in the face of conflagra-
tion!

I think one of the first things that endeared
Jacqueline Bouvier to me was that she very
seldom smoked during a fitting. She, too, was
afraid of burning a hole in a fine fabric.

Sometimes when Jackie was there in the
afternoon she would watch with amusement
as I tried to shoo a bevy of girls away from the
telephone. They had a habit of using my phone
to call their homes with a million and one
questions or details of where they were spend-
ing the afternoon, and how to reach them in
case of such and such an “emergency.”

“You're an indulgent mother,” said Jackie.

“You wouldn't get my daughters to agree
with you.” I was thinking of the times I had
tried to enforce my rule about staying out of
the living room when a fitting began. They
were especially rebellious when Jackie was
there because she fascinated them. They
wanted to peep at the “Inquiring Photog-
rafer’°—whose column, incidentally, was re-
named “The Inquiring Camera Girl.” They
wanted to know what she was wearing be-
cause they both fully intended to try for her
career someday.

How well she looked the part of the “‘aver-
age” girl intent on her career was brought
home to me one day by the husband of one of
my customers who came to call for his wife
and saw Jackie as she was leaving.

“You know,” he said, “if that girl with the
camera is a commercial photographer, she
could pick up some extra money. I’ve been
needing to have some pictures taken down at
the office. You can suggest it, if you like.”

I had to explain that I didn’t think Jackie
would be interested in “picking up some extra
money.” He looked disappointed as he left.

I was interested to learn that the man who
had been the “Inquiring Photographer” be-
fore Jackie was a student who had worked
his way through college to become a physician.
He is the one who helped her learn how to
choose interesting-looking people and how to
stop them with some provocative question.
Jackie learned quickly.

“What didn’t you give up after you got
married?” was one of her questions. It cer-
tainly started some interesting discussions in
my fitting room.

So did the column in which my customers
and I learned that the feminine ancestor of a
D.A.R. whom Jackie interviewed on the sub-
ject of genealogy had singlehandedly scalped
twelve Indians after they killed her baby.

And, “What do you think of wrestling as a
sport for women?”

And, “Are wives a luxury or a necessity?”

And, “Do you think a wife should tell her
husband that he’s smarter than she?”

And, “If you could have three wishes, what
would they be?” My daughters wished they
could grow up to look like Jackie and be in-
quiring camera girls.

I don’t know why she was at the veteri-
nary’s—it probably had something to do with
one of the dogs at the Auchincloss home—but
the column that resulted from her visit to the
small animal hospital in Georgetown run by
Dr. Jean S. Goudy became my favorite.

It was an interview in which Jackie asked
each dog what it was doing at the vet’s. The
dogs told her, without hesitation, and they
had no false modesty about giving their names,
ages and pedigrees. The first dog was Trudle,
aged five, who was there with a psychological
problem. “I’m in the maternity ward. I just
had five puppies.”’ (One for every year of her
age.) But she confided that now, when she
should have been happiest, she was miser-
able. “They took my puppies away because
they weren’t pure dachshunds. I can’t eat. I
just want my puppies back.”

Teh there was a stouthearted gentleman
boxer, aged seven, who said, “What am I
doing here? My dear lady, I ask myself the
same question.” A little later he admitted
he did have a slight “corneal ulcer—nothing
serious.”

There was Cracker, a cocker spaniel, who
said he’d “gone to Florida for my health and
ended up by losing it completely.” He'd de-
veloped a little case of asthma and a touch
of intestinal infection from a garbage can and,
on top of it all, the climate had “simply
wrecked” his nerves.

Another cocker, thirteen-year-old Simon,
told Jackie, “I’m an old man.” But he added
philosophically, “I’m resigned to spending
most of my time in doctors’ offices these days.”

Sis, a miniature schnauzer, said she
“couldn’t be more annoyed” about being at
the vet’s. She had simply taken a bite out of a
nurse whom she couldn’t stand. “I bit her good
and hard,” she said, “and I was dumped here
to board till my owner recovers. And that
better be soon, I’m telling you.”

When Jackie came in I said, “Your column
shows you certainly know how to bring out
the best in man or beast.”

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“But I seem to bring out the worst in little
children,” she laughed. “You should hear
some of their frank answers.”

“I read one,” I said, and went to get the
column in which a little girl had told what
she thought of little boys—in rhyme:

“Grunty old goldfish and tattletale ginger ale,
Stick your hand in the garbage pail.”

“Yes,”’ she said, ‘“‘and that isn’t the worst of
it. How about where she tells how Donald
kicked Edmund’s tooth out and he bled all
over the place?”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Perfect little ladies and
gentlemen.”

Jackie was wearing her favorite sweater-
and-belted-skirt working costume and carry-
ing over her arm a suit of heavy faille. “I got
this suit in France, but I wonder if you can do
something with the jacket. I feel just like a
penguin every time I wear it.”

I examined the suit. “It’s beautiful, simply
beautiful.”

“Isn’t it?” she said. “But the front is cut too
deep for me. I realize that now.”

“Well, let’s see what can be done,” I said.

The skirt had a slim straight look. The
jacket was fitted at the waist with a double-
breasted effect. But the item which was bother-
ing Jackie was the collar, which swooped down
below the bustline in a curve, making quite a
deep opening, so that the white blouse was
prominently displayed—just like a man’s full-
dress shirt or, as Jackie had said, the snowy
white front of an emperor penguin.

“Why don’t you slip into that suit and let
me see why you think you look like a pen-
guin?” I suggested.

Jackie backed off to scrutinize me, cocking
her head and looking me up and down. “‘I
have a better idea,” she said at last. “Why
don’t you try it on, Mrs. Rhea? It wouldn’t
look like that on you.”

I did.

She was right—I did nor look like a penguin
in it. I got so many compliments, because it
increased my stature and lengthened my short
neck, that when the skirt wore out I made a
new one to go with the jacket. The First Lady
would be surprised to learn that I still have
the suit and wear it often, although it has seen
almost a decade of hard wear.

Jackie’s mother and sister had lovely figures
which were quite alike. Both were shorter and
more rounded than Jackie. She brought Lee
to introduce her and have me do some work
for her and I immediately noticed the differ-
ence in the taste of the two sisters. Jackie said,
“Don’t try to make us look alike.”

Lee preferred more extreme styles and more
striking colors. She liked bright green and
sharp yellow, which Jackie would not wear in
those days. Lee wore purple when it was
rarely worn. She loved red too.

From yarious customers of the newspaper
world I heard that Jacqueline was very well
liked at the Times-Herald and respected for
taking a job in a field where she had had no
previous training. The reporters and photog-
raphers, young and old, volunteered their
services in helping the fledgling. I heard that
one photographer, in a burst of enthusiasm,
became a human tape measure to show Jackie
exactly how far away her subject should be
when she snapped the shutter.

“You should be just six feet away. I’m ex-
actly six feet tall. Look!’ And so saying, he
lay prone upon the floor. I’m sure Jackie will
never forget that newspaperman.

Die developed her film on the fourth floor of
the old Times-Herald building at 13th and H
Streets. Then she would go to the fifth floor
to write her column.

I heard that many of the reporters and
photographers would gang up to kid her at
the office. They would say, “‘What’s a beau-
tiful girl like you doing messing around with
the hypo?” (They were referring to the chemi-
cal used in developing photographs.) Jackie
would ask them sweetly why they weren’t do-
ing it for her.

“We're all thinking of taking a powder and
going out to your pool this afternoon. How”
about it?” they'd tease,

“T’rrific,” she’d answer.

But when the men on the

ould ask her out, she was very

Times-Herald
gentle in the

way she let them down. “I’m going out with a
group of friends,” she’d say. She never ac-
cepted a date from any of her coworkers.
When they’d ask her, she’d always be so sorry
but all tied up.

However, there was a reporter she had
dated in the past, Charles Bartlett, of the
Chattanooga Times, who arranged a dinner
party at his home in Georgetown so that she
could meet a certain bachelor congressman.

The congressman’s name was John Fitz-
gerald Kennedy.

After Husted and Jackie were no longer see-
ing each other his aunt, Mrs. Husted, and her
daughters, who were also my customers, would
still run into Jackie at my shop and they were
as good friends as ever. I would hear them
talk about the swimming pool and Jackie
would invite them all to come out and cool off.

She herself would first have to work in the
broiling sun, getting her half dozen subjects,
before she could join them at the poolside.

But Jackie could always use her wits to good
advantage in order to be where things were
more comfortable and pleasant. I remember
one hot July day found her at the cool, tree-
lined Hains Point links asking, ““What makes
you maddest on the golf course?”

And another hot day she toured the “hot
spots” asking, ““How do you keep cool?”

The Republican nomination came and went
without a ripple. Jackie bothered with only
one political question: ‘““What do you think of
General Eisenhower winning the nomination
on the first ballot?”

I asked if she was going to take a greater
interest in the campaign and she said she’d
leave politics to the political writers and stick
to human interest.

She really did have a way of provoking
people to thought. Once she asked, ‘What
prominent person’s death affected you most?”
and even some of my most rock-ribbed Re-
publican customers confessed they had cried
and been inconsolable at the death of Presi-
dent Roosevelt, feeling that he had done his
best, though “misguided,” and in effect had
given his life for his country. “ty

| wo Uy
S CP
B

‘GY, Ss
Ly as

OTHER VIEWS,
SIZES AND

PRICES

OF VOGUE
PATTERNS

ON PAGES 44 and 45

5428

5213 & 5420

She almost caused a fight between two
Government secretaries who came for a fitting
together after she asked, “‘Do you think you
understand your boss better than his wife
does?” One of the women was sure she did and
this, for some unknown reason, caused indig-
nation in the other.

However, the question she asked at that
time which applied most to herself—though
she’d have been surprised to know it—was,
“Do you think your life story would make a
good movie?’ Only in retrospect can I see
that she was living the making of a good movie
story, with two handsome men—John Fitz-
gerald Kennedy and Henry Cabot Lodge—
fighting for a great and desired position, a
seat in the Senate. Her hero was the dark-
horse candidate.

But talk about absentee romances! Now she
was waiting for telephone calls, waiting for
the congressman’s short visits between his
hurried campaign trips to Massachusetts.

This is a romance ? | thought.

But Jackie proved she had absorbed not
only French fashion but the Frenchwoman’s
serenity and ability to wait. And she exuded
happiness. It seemed to me that Jackie was
definitely oriented toward the French. She
liked the language, the literature and the
fashions. She spoke of things French with af-
fection and said, ‘Well, after all, the Bouviers
are French.”

Incidentally, Jackie’s sister, Caroline Lee,
was named after Caroline Ewing who had de-
fied her Protestant family in Philadelphia and
married a Roman Catholic, John Vernou
Bouvier. This great-grandmother had been
concerned with the problems of the world and
she performed an untold number of acts of
charity—among them, helping to set up the
New York Foundling Hospital for unwanted
children of all races and religions.

Jackie, I thought, was a lot like this great-
grandmother, having understanding and sym-
pathy for the highest and the lowest. She was
interested in the lives of all people.

She was also self-sufficient, didn’t want me
to fasten hooks or help with a zipper. Some of
my customers treated me like a maid, stepping

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5428. Two-piece dress and scarf; 10-18 (31-38) ; $1.00. Ver-
sion shown requires 234 yards of 54” fabric without nap, size 14. On sale January 10.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5213. “Easy to Make’ blouse; 10-20 (31-40);

ded

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Version shown requires 134 yards of 45” fabric without nap, size 14.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5420. “Easy to Make” skirt; 24-30 waist measure; 75c,
Version shown requires 1 34 yards of 54” fabric without nap, size 26 waist. On

sale January 10.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 1088. One-piece dress and coat; 10-18 (31-38); $3.50.
Coat version shown requires 2°4 yards of 54” fabric without nap, size 14.

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Dress and jacket binding require 4 yards of 45” fabric without nap. Jacket re-
quires 244 yards of 54” fabric without nap, size 14, On sale January 10.

Buy Vogue Patterns at the store which sells them in your city. Or order by mail, enclosing check or money

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add sales tax.) These patterns will be sent third-class mail. If you desire shipment first-class mail,
please include 10c¢ additional for each pattern ordered.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

out of their clothes and leaving them for me to
pick up. But Jackie didn’t want a lady’s maid,
and she had great respect for every individual.

I had come to realize that fashion was only
one fi cet of Jackie’s personality. Fashion, as
far as she was concerned, was just one more
means of self-expression.

I used to wish that all American girls would
be taught the principles of line and design as
a compulsory part of their high-school educa-
tion and that every housewife had at least one
French fashion magazine.

French clothes have more body, not only in
the materials but in the way they are made.
If one has ever ripped up a French suit in
order to make an alteration, that person will
know what I mean. Under the silk lining is the
muslin interfacing that has been stitched and#
restitched and placed over finely overcast g
seams, then boned in places, making it almost
impossible to get to the original seam.

When I started ripping apart the first French
suit brought to me for alteration, I thought,
This will be easy because it has such simple
lines. But when I had released the lining and
taken a look at what was underneath I soon
saw that it was as complicated on the inside as
it was uncomplicated outside. This was, I re-
alized, a good way to get a lesson in French
sewing technique, so I studied each step. In the
interfacing the darts were cut away and over-
lapped and then stitched to eliminate bulk.
Frequently Americans just cut and press open
the darts which can leave a mark on the out-
side of the suit. The whole suit, I found, was
interfaced to give it shape and keep that re-
laxed look from being marred by wrinkles.

Jackie insisted on dress linings and at least
part of the French construction in her clothes.
I remember when I made a bathing outfit
for her in the summer of ’52 the little white
piqué jacket to go with the white halter-top
suit was a delight to behold, yet was guaran-
teed not to go limp the first time she lounged
in it or drenched it in the water. The inter-
facing of the jacket was hidden by a flam-
boyant orange print that went beautifully with
Jackie’s dark hair and healthy suntan.

I made a lot of playtime dresses that sum-
mer for Jackie, and some career-girl dresses.
It was the summer she was testing out her own
look of no collar, no sleeves, a slightly full,
gathered skirt, or one with big box pleats. No
pockets. I would see this look grow more and
more important to her and become the

‘Jackie look” which intrigued the nation as it |

became acquainted with her.

Election time was upon the nation in No-
vember and I didn’t see how Jacqueline’s
friend could wrest the Senate seat from Henry
Cabot Lodge. Everyone was predicting a Re-
publican landslide, and in my shop there was

scarcely a person who didn’t say, “I like Ike.” —

Even those who said “Stevenson is the bet-
ter man” added, “but I wish he had a wife and
were a little more colorful.”

In the eleventh hour Jacqueline was busy

asking campaign questions like mad. She |
sought out Washington’s top society hostesses _ |

to ask, “With which presidential candidate

would you rather be marooned on a desert ©

island?”

Mrs. Morris Cafritz gave the most hilarious »

answer: “I’m a very social person, you know.

I think being stranded with either one would

get a bit tiresome after a while. What I'd really .
love is to be marooned with both of them on
the same island at the same time. They
mightn’t like it so much, but I think it would }
be divine.”
3

What a riotous time there was in Washing-’
ton after Eisenhower’s landslide returns came
in! Jackie was in the thick of it as a girl re-
porter.

But she was, I am sure, most interested
in reading about how one Democratic
bachelor congressman had bucked the strong
Republican tide to win a smashing victory over
Henry Cabot Lodge Jr.

Election or no election, the newspapers were
published and Jackie kept working hard.
Some of her questions continued to have a.
political angle: ‘Who would you like to see in
President Eisenhower’s cabinet?” and “Do
you think Eisenhower should confer with
General MacArthur before going to Korea?”

Se ee ee oe

ys ee eee

eS es was = . SOU CUS Oe Oe

JANUARY, 1962

She even showed a new interest in the inter-
national situation, asking, “What four Amer-
icans would you name or delegate to the U.N.
to match Russia’s team of Vishinsky, Gro-
myko, Zorin and Zorubin?”

And as our First Lady now bemoans the
fact that photographers take pictures of her
children with telephoto lenses and that the
interest of reporters makes it impossible to
give them privacy, I am sure she remembers,
when she was a part of the press, looking for
a fresh approach to our important national
figures.

The votes were hardly counted before she’d
scooped the other newspapers by seeking out
Patricia Nixon, six-year-old daughter of the
new Vice President, in front of her home at
4801 Tilden Street. ““What do you think of
Senator Nixon now?” she asked.

Little Tricia, as she was called, promptly
gave one of the best quotes I ever read: ““He’s
always away. If he’s famous, why can’t he
stay home? See this picture? That’s a coming-
home present I made for daddy. Julie did one,
too, but she can’t color as well as me. All my
class was voting for Eisenhower, but I told
them I was just going to vote for daddy.”

The interview madea hit with Jackie’s editor
and her readers. She followed it with another
child’s-eye-view story which was so good the
editor put it on the front page. It was about
the complications of being nieces of a Presi-
dent. To get it, Jackie had waited outside the
John Eaton public school for two little girls
and had walked them home. As they walked,
Jackie had sketched them and the wonderful
squiggle drawing, showing ten-year-old Mamie
Moore and eleven-year-old Ellen Moore car-
rying their schoolbooks, appeared with the
story.

Young Mamie had complained that when
reporters telephoned asking for “Mamie” her
mother told them Mamie wasn’t there. “My
mother thought they meant my Aunt Mamie,”
sine said, “but how did she know they didn’t
mean me?” Mamie had a further complaint
that, “Only three people in my class knew
Uncle Ike was my uncle.” But she added that,
since she had brown hair and bangs, “*Every-
body said I look like Aunt Mamie and so now
they all know.”

Poor Ellen, who was not named after any-
body famous and didn’t even have bangs, was
really sad. *‘Nobody knows who I am,” she
said.

On the brighter side, Mamie Moore re-
ported that a girl in her class had suggested
she tell the teacher that unless she gave her
good grades the President of the United
States would “throw her off the school
board.” But, after all, Mamie reflected aloud,
she didn’t think it would do any good “be-
cause if Uncle Ike heard that, he’d just tell my
mother, and would she get mad!”

When I heard that the girl’s mother, Mrs.
Gordon Moore Jr., had called the editor to

‘complain about this interview, I was on
_Jackie’s side. The unwritten law of the news-

paper world is, “The public has a right to
know.” After all, it had been a delightful story
and showed that Mrs. Moore was a good
mother. What harm had been done?

Jackie was feeling bad about it, however.
and told several people how sorry she was,
adding, ‘‘It must be terrible to be so prom-
inent that your children are exposed to so
much publicity.”

ic congressman was now a senator-elect
and in the holiday season of 1952 Jacqueline
really had a holiday glow. She was asking lit-
tle children what they wanted for Christmas.
and I began to have an inkling that what she
wanted was the senator.

She came tearing in one day, saying, “I have
this trrific idea for a dress.” She gave me a
rough sketch of the effect she wanted to
achieve. Together we worked out the design
for a white ball gown to be worn with a red
stole—a wonderful Christmas touch.

Jackie had brought eight yards of beautiful
white satin and two and a half yards of red
velvet. Now it was up to me to figure out how
to cut the dress and the red velvet stole. It
was Jackie’s idea to have a long, floor-to-
floor style, with much fullness at the bottom.
This I managed by a trick which anyone can
try.

I took the two and a half yards of red vel-
vet, which was forty-five inches wide, and cut
it diagonally. Then I slid the two pieces apart.
Holding one piece to the floor—allowing
material to turn under, of course—I drew
the material up to the back of the neck. Then
I put the other piece on the other side, also
reaching the floor, with allowance for turning
under, and pinned the two pieces together at
the back of the neck, so | would know where
to sew them. The stole was backed with the
same shade of red silk.

To the best of my knowledge, Jacqueline
was the first person to wear this type of floor-
to-floor stole in Washington.

She was in and out of the shop and she
sparkled as cheerfully as the tiptop bulb on my
Christmas tree. Romance seemed to be having
a good effect on her and I could’ see, reading
between the lines, that her column contained
certain questions which were meant to have a
certain effect on a certain person. For example,
one which appeared about mid-December:
“Can you give any reason why a contented
bachelor should get married?”

One woman gave a priceless answer: “Even
if a bachelor thinks he’s happier running
around painting the town, he really isn’t. He’s
just confused.’ Another girl said if a man
didn’t marry he was practically a coward,
afraid of women. Another woman used the
fear-of-loneliness approach. The gay bachelor
yasn’t lonely, she said, “But won’t he be
sorry when he finds himself all alone with no-
body to spend his old age with?”

The men were almost as positive. Some-
where Jackie had found a happy fellow who
was just about to get married and vowed he'd
never miss his bachelor days. One man ap-
proached marriage from the standpoint of
logic and said every man had to do his part to
keep the human race going with a couple of
kids—he simply wasn’t doing his duty to so-
ciety otherwise.

The o.vly man in the column who started
out claiming he was a “contented bachelor”
ended admitting that losing one’s freedom
must have some reward. “I suppose it’s com-
pensated for by other things,” he said.

The newspapermen and photographers at
the Times-Herald received Christmas presents
that were typically Jackie. She picked those
men who needed a lift to their spirits most
frequently and gave them packages from the
liquor store. Whatever was their favorite
brand, they had it. Beautiful ribbons made
the unwrapped gift cartons look “trrific.”

The men drooled as they accepted the
boxed bottles, but, since Jackie had to go out
on assignment, she made them promise to
wait till she got back before opening them.

They did.

She did.

Came the great opening. Milk! All the
bottles were filled with milk. She had dumped
out the whisky and substituted plain milk.
That was Jackie at Christmastide, 1952.

Hardly anyone knew—not even her co-
workers on the Times-Herald—that she was
interested in the senator. One night she came
to pick up a dress she needed that evening. It
was about six-thirty. Three or four other
career girls were there also to pick up their
clothes. I can picture her now, standing in a
corner near the door, quietly waiting her turn.
One of the other girls was impatient. “I’m ina
big hurry. I have a big date.” I thought, Yes,
but not with a senator. Jackie and I looked at
each other but said nothing.

She went to Senator Kennedy’s new house
on inauguration night and nobody knew ex-
cept those few she wanted to have know—and
the other guests, of course. Then they all went
to take a look at the proceedings at the Inau-
gural Ball. Jackie must have been exhausted
She had put in a full day covering the inau-
guration and parade, staying with her sketch
pad until the last elephant had lumbe-:d past
the reviewing stand.

Her story was headlined: “Picnic Lunches
Help Crowd Wait for Inaugural Parade.”
And through her eyes I saw it all—how “the
grandstands suddenly came to life at 7:30 A.M.
when the first program sellers appeared.”’ How
next had come the people “clutching cameras
and picnic lunches.”” And how finally the

Rolls-Royces deposited “‘women in saris and
mustachioed ambassadors.”

One woman confided to Jackie that she had
come to view the Inaugural Parade because,
when she’d seen the wedding procession of
Princess Elizabeth on TV, she'd felt “cheated.”
Through the eyes of Jackie I saw the “‘ambas-
sadors” from Hollywood too—Clifton Webb
and ‘Prince’ Mike Romanoff, with whom she
had talked.

I didn’t see any pictures in the newspapers
of Jackie and the senator at the ball. The at-
tention was all on Mamie Eisenhower and
how Charles of Elizabeth Arden’s had come
from New York to dress her suddenly famous

one of the 56

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Y cup finely grated Cheddar cheese
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Combine filling ingredients; let
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bangs, and how she wore a gown of peau de
soie in Mamie pink, designed by Nettie
Rosenstein. It had a tremendous skirt, sprin-
kled with rhinestones, and her pink shoes and
bag were sprinkled with rhinestones too.
Around her throat she wore a triple-strand
choker of simulated pearls and baguette
rhinestones. Her earrings were clusters of
eight small pearls and eight rhinestones around
one large center pearl. But the jewelry was not
genuine. The big news of the day, fashionwise,
was that the First Lady had given new promi-
nence to costume jewelry.

Sure enough, I was to see the “Mamie
style” dresses become the rage of Washington.

each 1 inch larger than tops of 14
cup baking dishes. Cut slits in tops.
Spoon filling into dishes. Moisten
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MINUTE is a registered trade-mark of General Foods Corp,

What amazed me most about the Inaugural
Ball of 1961 was that most of the guests still
had the Mamie Eisenhower look in their
bouffant evening gowns. Jackie, in her starkly
slim sheath, stood out, in a class by herself.

In that winter of 1953 Jackie was still de-
veloping her individual look. Once in a while
she would tell me that the senator had thought

something she w ‘t’rrific’’ and I would
be as proud as Punch. But sometimes when I
asked how he had liked
would say with a smile
noticed.”

My impression
though had

ore Was ~

a certain dress she
“I don’t believe he

senator, al-

the
surrounded

was that
up

grown

clothes-conscious women— including a mother
who frequently shopped in Paris—was not too
clothes-conscious himself, but that he simply
liked the total effect of Jacqueline’s clothes.
And what he liked best of all was her way of
expressing herself and her ability to make him
laugh.

I watched each day’s column and tried to
read into it some hidden message. There was
one in which she asked what people thought
was the food of romance and an unromantic,
literal-minded butcher said, *‘ Filet mignon.”

And, as spring crept around the corner, I
chortled as she asked whether Irishmen made
good lovers. She used a writer as her authority

and said, “The Irish author, Sean O’Faolain,
claims that the Irish are deficient in the art of

love. Do you agree?”

Someone pointed out that half the movie
actors were Irish and a girl said with absolute
The Irish are the true lovers of the
world. They are the most romantic of all
races. The Latins are greatly overrated. They
are professional lovers, but the Irishman loves

finality, ~*

from his heart. They’re so sincere.”
Then the girl added a touching line:

didn’t realize.”

I thought to myself, And so has a certain

girl I know.

STUART

Chicken kabob style with rosy tomatoes, peppers, mushrooms and Rc ers—quick to cook, succulent, delicious

The Well Fed ‘ BAdezroom

By hoa WILLIAMS

CHICKEN

The well-known way to a man’s heart is via
his interior. Interest and new ideas have a
_great deal to do with the desired goal, and
are more fun for the cook too.

A quick way to vary a day-to-day meal
is to have a set of skewers on hand. The
combinations of bits of meat, fish or poul-
try that you can thread on them, alternat-
ing with vegetables such as onions, pep-
pers, mushrooms and tomatoes, are many

and the taste delicious, particularly if a

well-seasoned marinade is used for basting

during the cooking.

Most supermarkets have chicken breasts,
but if you have to buy a small broiler,
do so, as there are so many good ways to use
the rest of the bird. Cut away the bone
from the breasts with a sharp knife or with
scissors. It’s not complicated—takes only
a minute or 1 Cut each breast int
ters for the } s. If you do not hz
skewers, the br may be left whole,
marinated in the sauce and broiled as
you would any o ken. It’s the mar-
inade that gives iticing
flavor.

Serve with quickly cooked ri

ins, a salad, and ice cream sp

ystallized-ginger sauce, and you hay

inative meal.

CHICKEN KABOBS

Marinade: Kabobs:

3 chicken breasts,
boned and
cut into squares

14 cup soy sauce
24 cup salad oil

1¢ cup sugar
2tablespoonslemon 14 pound chicken

juice or, if you like, __ livers (optional)

2tablespoonssherry 12 squares cut from

14 teaspoon mono- 2 green peppers

sodium glutamate 1 tomatocut into6

1 small clove garlic, wedges

crushed 6 mushroom caps

Combine all the ingredients for the

sauce and let chicken and chicken livers (if
you use them) stand in this for about 1

hour. Using two long skewers (about

8”-9") arrange alternating pieces of

chicken, green pepper, mushroom, chicken
and vegetables. Brush with some of
marinade and place under a broiler

out 4" from the heat. Broil 20-25 min-

ute brushing and turning frequently.

Makes 2 servings. Serve with saffron rice.
SAFFRON RICE
Prepare 2 cup quick-cooking rice. Follow

directions on package, but add a pinch of

rushed saffron to the water.

KABOBS ¢ SAFFRON RICE * LIMA BEANS ¢ ORIENTAL SALAD ¢ ICE CREAM WITH GINGER SAUCE

ORIENTAL SALAD

1 hard-cooked egg
1 tablespoon light

1 tablespoon
chopped chives

cream 3 radishes, sliced

14 cup French dress-
ing

14 cucumber, peeled
and sliced

14 cup chopped”.
celery

14 cup sliced canned
water chestnuts

Salt and pepper
2 cups torn salad
greens

Mash the yolk of the egg with cream and
stir into French dressing. Chop the egg
white. Salt and pepper the greens. Add the
egg white, chives, radishes, cucumber.
celery and water chestnuts. Toss with the
dressing and serve. Use enough dressing
for your taste. Makes 2 servings.

GINGER SAUCE

FOR ICE CREAM
sugar
114 cups water

lcu 14 teaspoon grated
lemon rind

2-3 tablespoons crystallized ginger

Boil all ingredients together for 5 minutes.
Cool and chill. This keeps well in the re-
frigerator, making enough sauce for two or

three meals for 2. Serve on ice cream.

“T’ve
got a purpose for this madness. in case you

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Spring had come again to 1820 35th Street—
dogwood blossoms and all—the most mem-
orable spring I had known and the like of
which I would never know again.

The days were bright and the sounds were
sweet and we kept the French doors of the
ground-level sewing room open on the patio
garden. The colors on the rack behind me
formed an indoor garden of gay colors.

Caroline Lee was getting married. She had
followed in her sister’s footsteps and had been
chosen in 1950 as the leading debutante of
New York City, where she had been presented
to society at the Junior Assembly.

But suddenly the little sister had taken the
lead and was first to the altar. The date was
set for Saturday, April 18.

Jacqueline came in with her sister when Lee
ordered some things for her honeymoon in the
Virgin Islands. And as I sewed the casual
dresses and playtime togs for honeymooning
in the sun, I thought how different the sisters
were in their attitude toward clothes. Lee
seemed to like many different types of dresses,
whereas Jackie seemed to stick to certain
basic styles and evolved her fashion changes
slowly. In my opinion, Lee always dressed in
“high” fashion and is still more striking today
in her dress than Jackie is.

Nees Lee’s wedding, customers were begin-
ning to say to me that they wondered if
Jacqueline’s career meant more to her than
marriage. But Jacqueline said nothing.

I said nothing either, and watched Jackie
come in more and more frequently to change
clothes before a date. Something new had
been added—she now brought along a little
makeup case which she kept in the car. I think
it had room enough for her daytime dress
when she sloughed off her working clothes to
emerge like Cinderella for the night.

I once asked Jackie what the senator called
her and she said, “Jackie, just as everyone
else does. Nobody calls me by my real name,
Jacqueline,” and she pronounced it for me
with the soft J and the ending /een.

I thought:

Jacqu—leen

It rhymes with “‘queen.”

Some other customers would toot their
horns and I would have to run out into the
street with their dresses, but never Jackie. If
she was in an extreme hurry, she’d dash to the
door and I'd hand them to her. She’d call

“Thanks a million’ over her shoulder and
would be off in a flash. Jackie was never too
hurried to be polite.

She seemed very gay that spring. I can see
her now, loaded down with camera, maga-
zines and packages of materials—no hat, no
gloves, hair flying in a short feather cut. A
lovely tousled look. She would put her things
on the sofa to the right of the door. This was a
big, sectional sofa, covered in green, which
went well with my green rug. A blond-wood
step table, in the corner, separated the two
sections. The rug was my one folly, because if
you dropped pins on it, it would engulf them
forever. I used to live in terror lest one of my
customers, who were always taking off their
shoes to ease their feet, would die of blood
poisoning.

Jackie never took off her shoes. That was
because she never wore uncomfortable shoes.
Even when I saw her dressed for an evening
date, the heels were only medium high.

Suddenly, Jackie needed costumes ina hurry.
She came real/y bursting in one day with the
news that she was “‘off to London to visit the
queen.” She had only a few days to get ready.
She was thrilled and excited because she
would be covering the coronation of Eliza-
beth II for her newspaper. “I'll get a chance to
do some regular writing,’ she said. She was
going with several girls and was traveling on
the SS United States.

“Will you take your camera?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m supposed to carry on my Inquir-
ing Camera Girl stories, but I just may throw
my camera overboard.”

She had been promoted. Every week her
pay envelope contained the astronomical
amount of fifty-six dollars and some cents.
Well, the newspaper certainly got its money’s

CONTINUED ON PAGE 82

=.*

PEACH OFA \ Winter winds 1
A STACK! are blowing in a ook WwW 1at you
calendar full of d. s h night. Make
A bright idea to begin the day! cold damp davs! Cal ) OWIC Crocker Bu
Make pancakes from Betty Be es a « a with Pea
Crocker Buttermilk Pancake Mix, lime for piping ) | } i 1p peacl 1eS and bacon.

serve with Peach-Maple Syrup hot and hearty Peach-Orange Sauce:

and sausage. breakfasts. ..tummy- & Bet. w Crocker a b. 13-07.) cling pea

eae Syrup: warming treats Pp @ '
can (1 Ib. 13-0z.) cling peach slices : C j ] xX

1 c. maple-flavored syrup around the clock. Al meake Vy e

2-3 tbsps. sausage drippings (or butter : : ‘ ~~

| nh cing peac h slices. Heat mapie- SO how about SCT\ Ing Z

flavored syrup math sausage drippi some shiny NEW food ideas at your house? Ti®adding the lus-

to simn AAdd peact ‘ , néz : . . 5 . a
CLING peaches hold their shape and cious flavor of hot cling peaches to pancakes or wafHles...it’s

bauny coloraahiny heating -) Ses quick, ever-so-easy, and sure to make the family happy you did!

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SORY BOARD

MONTH

IS) THE
MONTH.

FEBRUARY

WEDDING What woman

doesn’t dream of a wedding—her

own, perhaps, or her daughter’s?
You can share the dreams of Mary
Lynn Caldwell, of Charlotte, North
Carolina, for a wedding to remember
“happily ever after.’’ Fun, froth and
excitement (and all the practical in-
formation for making a big wedding,
at little expense, move smoothly). ‘*I
WANT A TRADITIONAL WED-

DING,” Jean Todd Freeman,

is next in the Journal’s famous series,
““How America Spends its Money.”

ACRE RETIRE ENE TINT LRN SR
RY OSES ese Wa ota ee
4 : EN

dd a,
SARAH AND WILLIAM MICRENER
welcome here,” Sarah he f \

Soe Ee ee
ERM ETS SSN

THE BEAUTIFUL AND
MAIDENS tells of Lizzie,
Sara.

ANXIOUS
Lida and
They would have been sought
man in town—had there
delightful

Civil War years, by Edmund G. Love.

by every

been any. A story from

CAN YOU
YOUR CHILD?
tists say.

CHOOSE THE
“Very
Irving Fischer’s report on

SEX OF

soon,” scien-

research that could change the world.

JOURNAL’s

URSULA CURTISS WILL CHILL
YOUR BONES! Harriet knew that it
was only a matter of minutes before
Mrs. Marrable’s evil claimed two
new victims. Find a nice safe cor-
ner for reading the new mystery
novel complete, THE FORBID-
DEN GARDEN, condensed,
February Journal.

in the

HOW CAN AN ARGUMENT BE TACT-

FULLY AVOIDED? Princess Lee
Radziwill’s answers to this and a
number of similar questions. will

please you with their good sense,
charm you with their graciousness,
and make you understand why she is
internationally known as a superb
hostess. For the problems of a host-
ess are the same in London and the
U.S., whether her guest ore
the John F. Kennedys, or neighbors

engrossed in talk about the PTA.

OOH AND AAH—THEN EAT the
wedding cake you can duplicate. Fol-
low Aunt Louise’s simple step-by-
step directions. Wedding excitement
pervades the whole February Jowr-
nal. Other examples: the menu for the
bride’s first dinner, a complete deco-
rating plan to fit newlywed budgets.

WOULD DIVORCE
LESS HARM THAN CONSTANT
QUARRELING? Dr. Spock drives
home some hard truths about the way
parents use their children to battle
each other.

DO A CHILD

Also fashion, beauty, Making Mar-
Work, Tell Me Doctor and
fiction in the February Journal.

riage

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 80

worth, because some days it carried two of
her by-lines—one from London and one from
Washington.

I watched the Times-Herald, waiting for
Jackie’s first story on her “foreign assign-
ment.” Then on June 1, 1953, there it was, on
page 2 and datelined from shipboard.

It was illustrated, not with photos but with
Jackie’s own inimitable drawings.

It was typical that, while others were writing
about famous people on shipboard, Jackie
wrote about their somewhat less famous
dogs—dogs like Trooper and Dizzy, telong-
ing to the Duchess of Windsor, and a haughty
dog named Thomas, a cairn of the duke’s.

Others were reporting the grandicse plans of
the notables who were going to the corona-
tion. She was relating how the duke’s valet
spent more time with Thomas than with his
master. And that there were fourteen dogs on
the SS United States, and the price for a sea
voyage for a dog was fifty dollars.

Next day her story was headed: ‘‘Crowds
of Americans Fill Bright, Pretty London.”

“Oh, to be in London, now that corona-
tion’s here,” said Jacqueline Bouvier, adding
that Robert Browning would have forgotten
all about England in April had he been in Lon-
don at the time of the June coronation.

I felt that I had a ringside seat at the un-
folding of an historic pageant. I watched the
excitement through Jackie’s eyes. I ““watched”
as it took her forty-five minutes to cross
Trafalgar Square instead of the usual three
minutes. I saw the pictures of the queen in the
front windows of all the homes and everyone
out to gaze at the multicolored bunting wav-
ing from the street lights and buildings.

Good reporter Jackie ferreted out the “‘se-
cret” that a hidden mark had been placed on
the crown so that it wouldn’t be put on back-
ward, as it had been in 1937 when the queen’s
father, George VI, was submitted to the indig-
nity of a backward crown.

Everyone in my fitting room was full of
praise for Jackie’s wonderfully witty sketches
of London scenes and agreed that she was do-
ing the U.S.A. proud.

Suddenly Jacqueline’s by-line was gone
from the newspapers. The Column was there,
but someone else was doing it without a by-
line. I saw an editor’s note that Jacqueline
had gone to Paris to cover social life there.
But I didn’t see any more stories from her.

Later I learned that the coronation was
Jackie’s swan song in newsp. ser work. I
learned it from Jackie herself. She came in to
say hello and to have a few things fixed. She
was really happy—radiant.

LADIES’ HOME JOURN

Something was up, I could sense. The:
saw what was different—a diamond-ail
emerald ring on her engagement finger.

“Well,” I asked, “does this ring mean w
I think it means?”

mV eS, Judoess:

“Let me look at it.”

She held out her hand proudly and told f
how happy she was. I told her I was harp

o. “Do you know what your plans are

“Not definitely, but I hope sometime tf}
fall we'll be married. Please don’t menti!
my engagement until it is announced. I kn¢
you won't.’

“The column,” I exclaimed aaa!

“What's going to happen to the column?” | ‘

“Well, Jack says one wr?<er in the family)
enough. Actually, I’ve been getting a little gir
of the same format all the time. There was
enough chance for real writing.”

But I couldn’t believe that Jackie
through and I would never see her by-li
again. Shell write novels, I thought.
maybe she'll do plays. She'll surely write aga

Yet I could see that for her the column
something of the past. Now she was sayi!
with a happy smile, “I’m unemployed.”

I smiled too. Jackie might be out of a jo

but her future looked pretty rosy. {

Jackie is in the White House now—go# }!*

from Merrywood and Georgetown. And I a’

gone from Washington. Yet I return aga) |=

and again. Now and then I run into peo
who knew Jackie then and I am transporte
back through a chain of memories to tho
earlier years.
The house where she came with import
material for a new dress is still there—but o
the changes! Now the red brick of 1820 35
Strect, N.W., has been painted a fashionab_
beige. The vacant lot next door is gone; in i)
place is another fashionable Georgetow.

house. Down at 13th and H Streets, N.W., tk

old Times-Herald building looks sad, boarded

up and closed. I remember when the door wi |!

always open, the windows brightly lighte¢
and Jackie Bouvier was hurrying in and ou
The very name of the newspaper is gone, t

Washington Times-Herald bought by t

Washington Posr. But those words, Time.
Herald, are all | need for remembrance. I don
think we should lose sight of the tall, slim gi
with the heavy camera and the big shoulde
purse and the French fashion magazines and th
shirtwaist dresses and the merry laugh an
the twinkling light brown eyes who pounde
the sidewalks and stopped people and asked th
questions and made the notes and wrote th
columns. Because now this picture of her be
longs to history. f

TOO PRETTY
TO BE FAT
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 10

other girls dated and I didn’t, I went to the
refrigerator. When it was impossible for me to
buy pretty clothes (mine had to be made from
a size-2414 pattern, expanded at the hips), I
went to the refrigerator.

Nowadays, it makes me ill just to think
about what I used to eat. For example, a
typical prediet day used to include: Breakfast:
large serving of hot cereal with butter, cream.
sugar; 3 or 4 slices of buttered toast with jam;
cocoa or chocolate milk. Ar recess: 2 choco-
late-nut candy bars. Lunch; 2 calorie-packed
sandwiches, fruit, cookies, soda pop and an
ice-cream bar. After school: cookies, milk
and whatever leftovers might be in the re-
frigerator. Dinner: in addition to large sery-
ings of meat, green vegetables and salads, I
added mashed potatoes with butter and gravy;
2 or 3 hot buttered rolls, 4 glasses of iced tea
with lots of sugar; large servings of homemade
pie or cake. And at bedtime: more leftovers, or
sandwiches of bread and mayonnaise, with
cookies and milk.

I wanted to go to college, and would have
if I had been able to find a part-time job to
support myself. But my ungainly appearance,
with its implication of laziness and indiffer-
ence, was always a first strike against me.
One office dismissed me even before an inter-

view, explaining I couldn’t possibly pass thei
physical exam. A lady in an employme

agency muttered something about the po

bility of my getting domestic work, but elim:
nated even that on the basis that I woul
probably tire too easily. I didn’t want to b
someone else’s maid. The fact that I probabl
couldn’t was most depressing. The humiliatior
I experienced during those weeks of job hunt’
ing should have spurred me on to reduce, i
only for the sake of personal pride. But °
obstinately resented the tu:ndowns and con
sidered it unfair to be juczed by my appeai
ance and not my ability. s

Discouraged, I gave up the idea of going t
college, and settled for taking a course at ¢
business school where students were guaraa
teed placement on completion of studies. My
job turned out to be in a hospital, typing
medical reports. There I was surrounded by
all kinds of data on the importance of goo
health. Sympathetic doctors and nurses triec
to encourage me to lose weight. Nevertheless
I blindly continued to gorge, always tellin,
myself and others, “I'll diet tomorrow.”

My weight registered 250 pounds on th
scales in the apartment I shared with anothe
girl. One day I noticed that they continued
register 250 pounds, despite the fact that I ha¢
done nothing to curb my appetite. I wags
thrilled, thinking some magic had beer
wrought, enabling me to stop gaining. Ii
wasn’t until I went for a routine medical
checkup months later that I discovered my

N| JLANUARY, 1962

factual weight to be 300 pounds. My doctor
quickly cleared up the “mystery” of the
standstill weight by reminding me that our
tthome scales were limited to registering no
more than 250 pounds. He warned me that
‘my excessive weight was enough actually to
endanger my health. Frightened—and finally
idisgusted with myself—I determined on that
jiday to change my way of eating.

| It took me approximately a year and a half
lito reduce to my present 150 pounds—a weight
ijjust about perfect for my height of 59”. My
«idiet never exceeded 1000 calories a day, and I
had regular medical checkups to ensure my
'zood health throughout. In the beginning I
was so hungry I thought I'd die. Every time I
\\closed my eyes, visions of pies and cakes
{floated by. A breakfast of fruit juice, cereal
wor an egg, and skim milk was a far cry from
‘|what I had been having. But, even so, I broke
iwmy diet only once and ate a whole pint of
itchocolate-marshmallow-nut ice cream. I was
(sick for two days.

i) In time, my visions of food were replaced
iby dreams of a slim, new figure, prettier
inclothes, dates, compliments. The thoughts of
life as it could be made me stick to my diet
ino matter what. I'd even put deposits on
dresses in sizes too small for me and collect
em with a final payment when I had reduced
ito the required measurements.

As my weight dropped, my interest in my
eneral appearance increased. I tried a new
airdo, began experimenting with makeup,
lucked my eyebrows to a flattering shape,
started wearing youthful-looking shoes. Be-
fore, I was so heavy I was afraid the little
¢heels on pumps would break unuer me..(My
shoe width has gone from a triple E to a B!)
ii When family and friends realized I was
serious about dieting, they were wonderéully
jjencouraging and complimentary. Mother

tikeep you away from the refrigerator, now I
ejcan’t get you near it.’ My brother-in-law
jtold me my personality improved with each
jpound I lost. My roommate learned how to
wwprepare tasty, low-calorie meals—even though
"s slim as a rail!

|
At 190 pounds I noticed my skin was begin-
j/ning to look flabby, so I immediately started
ipexercising. I chose exercises for the entire body,
concentrating on my problem spots—arms,
jiabdomen, hips—and did them for twenty
"minutes every morning. I began walking every-
siwhere (still do). I learned how to bowl, play golf,
wim. In fact, my exercises have been so re-
arding for my morale—as well as my skin
,and figure—I’ve kept them up. Keeping active
also leaves no time to sit around thinking
about food I don’t need!

By the time I reached 150 pounds my
brother—who hadn't seen me for a year and a

dihalf—came all the way to Austin, where I
ork, to see for himself. He wouldn't believe
that I had actually cut my weight in half. ““My
osh, you look wonderful!” he exclaimed,
ending his very first compliment to me.
Once reduced and feeling fit as a fiddle and
active for the first time in my life, I ex-
pected to turn into a social butterfly overnight.
41 thought lines of beaux would form at my
idoor; the telephone would ring incessantly;
Ithat I would have a big rush. Well, I must
admit, it didn’t happen that way. At first I
as disappointed, thinking, ““What’s the use?”
‘Then I realized that just because I had turned
#myself into a normal human being was no
sireason to feel the world would go on its knees
#for me. Gradually I did begin receiving invita-
fitions, I did date, I did blossom enough to
eiprompt others to enjoy my company.
») Nowadays I regularly date a beau of my
xiown. I am able to be selective about clothes,
a/finding a wide variety of pretty styles to choose
sfrom in a slim size. Folks either don’t recog-
ginize me at all, or cannot get over the way my
appearance has improved. A doctor at the
eihospital who used to tease me about my
eight has nicknamed me “Slim.”’ I’ve been
able to buy my first pretty bathing suit—and
‘feel pleased about the way I look in it. With
nore energy I can do more. My job itself has
¢Decome more interesting simply because I can
enter into it wholeheartedly without being
stymied by fruitless preoccupation with my
9 Personal problems.

ms
}

ould say gleefully, “Not long ago I couldn't.

I seem to be the type of person who gains
weight easily, and will have to watch my diet
for the rest of my life. I don’t mind. The
rewards are a/ready worth the effort, and—at
twenty-two years of age—this is only the
beginning.

Following is Rita’s diet outline, allowing
1000 calories a day, as given to her by her own
physician:

BREAKFAST:
Select from not more than 300 calories.
Calories
16 medium orange... 2... £25
tZ7esmall era peicult sceeeacas, eee ae BDO
S,COOKEd prunes... ks ee cree) 0
Isteaspoonibuttery jo ws ure ce ee)
Pe .cupoatmeallit 0) ocean bee eT
Te.eipiwheaticereal, . ai sie loesik 0/5
1 slice rye or white bread. . . . . 75
4-ounce glass tomato juice . ... 50
Pecupicormbakes® . ..ss'.. ae. 50
6-ounce,elass milks; ses. hitetie fe RS
6-ounce glass non-fat milk .... 90
1 tablespoonful heavy cream ... 35
PiteaSpoon sugar, wd os Glee. te 2D
MCPS cgrsen Bes iS ics we bh oe eR RAIS
1 unsalted soda cracker ..... 20
Tea or black coffee 0
Sugar substitute (14-gr. tablet) may
be used 0
LUNCH:
Select from not more than 300 calories.
Calories
8 small asparagus tips . ..... 20
2g cup Brussels sprouts ...... 20
Bistalks dreshicelery) 2554 2%. = 15
10'slicesicucumbers*s = 20205 So) 15
small head lettuce . ...... «15
14 cup cooked spinach . ..... 30
4 cup canned tuna. ....... 100
14 cup canned salmon ...... 100
14 cup cottage cheese. ...... £65
ISGR Ree mc) tle as sel SMEs RTO)
1 slice rye or white bread. . . . . 3 75
34 cup cooked cabbage . ..... 25
Ie COP egEplantie:, chy «fe eee) ed
2 small green peppers ...... 25
LeCUp SthINE+DEANS)<. ss ke a et eee
1 medium fresh tomato ..... 20
SZASCUDICATMOIS) = seks SEE ee PES EO
SZACUPICUTHIDS: Spree fou ay et On OD
ismalliapple’.: = sce ee 55
16 cup muskgaelon........ 40
Tea or black coffee 0
Sugar substitute (14-gr. tablet) may
be used 0
DINNER:
Select from not more than 400 calories.
Calories
icup veretable:soup” =) =) 7): 75
ivcup/spmach:soup << -) = tic 20a OD
WCU DCC SOUD is: at sue ee ea 90
slice lean’roast- beef (27. S85
2 cakes hamburger steak . . . . . 200
1 portion leanround steak . ... 85
1 slice leanroastlamb...... 95
1 slice rye or white bread’... . 3 = 75
2 slices roast veal . |...» .° 80
W slice breast chicken’ V5...) «. ==» 400
1g small chicken broiler. . . . . . 75
eee Caceres ee oD
1 small piece haddock . ..... 50
GuanwesOVSIerS. 5 cee ene oe oe oO
1 piece brook trout. ....... 45
Tea or black coffee 0
Sugar substitute (14-gr. tablet) may
be used 0

Bread, beverages, fruit and so on from the
above list may be added to any meal, provided
the total calories do not exceed the amount
prescribed.

Avoid the following foods : Nuts, olives, olive
oil, mayonnaise, chocolate, cocoa, gravy,cream
soups, sauces, ice cream, cream, candy, pastry,
macaroni, potatoes,alcoholicbeverages, canned
fruits in syrup, and highly spiced or salted
foods. (Lemon juice may be used on salads.)
Six glasses of liquid each day are allowed.
Be sure that your daily menus include a fresh
fruit, either meat, fish or egg, milk and three
vegetables. END

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40) 5
245 avycaristo TS

oe A MAN
IN THE HOUSE

BY HARLAN MILLER

Our Main Street coffee-break associates are
unanimous: more cyclists in cities (and more
cycle paths along superhighways) would im-
prove the republic’s waistline and traffic.
(Imagine New York with 100,000 home-to-
office and crosstown cyclists!)

Forbidden to speak to me in an Atlantic City
dining room because I was a judge, one of the
Miss America beauties gave me a big fat wink.
I treasure that wink; we need more winks in
polite society.

I applauded my Dream Girl’s baked pork
chops so glowingly that in ten days she
cooked three of my favorite dishes: potato
pancakes, swordfish and ham-and-eggs. (Men,
don’t sit on your hands!)

We've filled a giant bowl with our bizarre
match covers from faraway places, but over
the souvenir gems we sprinkle a layer of local
ones for our guests to carry off.

My Dream Duchess and I can’t agree whether
Joan Crawford’s slim hips are as great an
achievement as her well-bred twins. (I’ve sel-
dom seen a woman more svelte and gracious!)

One of our town’s brave-new-world matrons
flies a plane and reads a book a week. She’s
handsome, too; but I’m not sure her baked
chops are as good as my wife’s.

““A New York taxicab driver,” confides Betty
Comfort, unpacking her wrinkled clothes,
“told me he’d rather live in my town, where-
ever it is, than in New York. So I tipped him
an extra dime.”

If I eat ham or bacon and eggs or chops and
steaks, I’m OK with my farm neighbors; if
I mention seafood their wives look askance
and needle me. (But if I eat seafood the
lobstermen can eat steak.)

It’s debatable whether a good dancer is more
popular socially than a good listener. The
champ: a good dancer who listens.

Our town’s most extravagant matron argues
it’s thrifty to buy $1 Noel greeting cards, or
even $2 ones. ““Then you needn’t send gifts!”
she explains brightly.

Off to Pakistan goes our town’s brilliant
young heart specialist, to teach *em how to
make good medicine. Aren’t we under more
pressure than the Pakistani?

On my last visit to New York I invited a
poet to lunch at the Central Park zoo; he
raised me by inviting me for a drink at the
Harriman mansion, where he has the run of
the house. (Should I try verse?)

This winter all those bareheaded young men
with runny noses might be happier if they
wore berets. Have they got the courage to
face the needling ?

A blind bridge player visited our town. He
plays with Braille cards, and if you read him
the dummy cards he remembers ’em through
the hand, while I forget the last hand.

I’ve taken a strong family position: a good
book makes a good wedding gift, even to a
couple which already has a book. A book can
influence newlyweds’ life more’n a silver bowl.

If you’re a fortyish man, you may now relax
in a rocking chair without being suspected of
senility: you’re merely loyal to the President.
(Shall we send Khrushchev a rocker ?)

... When my four-year-old chum Harlan III
tells me he likes his other gramp better,
.. . Or our younger son writes us his first
letter from law school on yellow legal paper,
.,. And our son-in-law phones 1900 miles to
tell us his Suzi’s new bon mot,
.. . Or Junior bombards me with postcard
diet slogans in three languages,
... And my wife divides her wardrobe into
dresses I like and dresses I don’t,

Then I congratulate myself: my deadpan,
blank-eyed poker face has brought me the

amplest rewards.
2
MBC hard

“T’m the boss in this house, and

I hope that you agree with me.”

STRAIT PASSAGE

' CONTINUED FROM PAGE 35

known how I used his gift. (One hundred dol-
lars; what had he sold to get it? What had he
left?) Touched and grateful, I thanked him,
and outlined my plans. I would go south from
_ Madrid and tour the Spain that fills the songs:
Granada, Seville and Ronda. Without his gift
I could not have done this. Nothing pleased
him more than long letters, full of detail, but
still, knowing this, something kept me from
adding that I would cross the straits at Gi-
_braltar in order to meet the homebound liner
as it touched Tangier. It would be three days
on a new continent, with the inky passport
stamps to prove it. How childish! I knew the
port was modern and European, while to
grandpa Africa’s darkness began at the shore.
It was another of his nineteenth-century ideas,
but the very shadow of his unspoken fears
gave a tang of adventure to my plans.

On the day my classes ended, before I left
Madrid, I went to the travel agent and changed
my return ticket to read “Port of Embarka-
) tion—Tangier, Morocco” instead of ‘Bar-
celona.”” Then I booked a passage on the
ferry across the straits.

Tangier is that town which hangs framed on
‘the walls of hundreds of older American
_ homes. It is the Near Eastern, North African,

Oriental port which shimmers in a white sea-

reflecting haze, or is shown as all purple just at
- sunset when crenellated walls cast well-deep
- shadows on mosque prayer towers.

But these pictures shatter on first contact
with the noises of the dock at Tangier. Street
urchins, would-be guides, honking taxis tear

like scissors across the scene, and the last
traces of the dream are carried away by the
' stronger fume of the spice stands, the hashish,
and the pack mules which plod through the
town.

It is only from the top of the fort, the
Casbah, overlooking the minarets, the town,
the port and the bay, that the memory of the
picture re-forms, and the childhood notions

take on, with a quick thrill of recognition,
' three dimensions. When I landed, all I knew of
the Casbah was that its white walls towered
there, above the dock, and that, like a ricksha,
it was something exotic that I could enter, and
remember and talk about for years afterward.

Joseph and I argued later about that day.
He insisted that he had seen me climbing up
the steps toward the Casbah; he decided I was
the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, and had delib-
erately planted himself in front of me. I in-
sisted, and still do, knowing that I am no
prettier than the next, that I was on the wrong
side of the path; I was looking down at my
open guidebook and he had swung around the
corner so quickly that there was no chance to
_ avoid a full collision.

My guidebook sailed into the air. The wind
took it in a wide arc and headed it downward
to land on the wave-splashed rocks two hun-
dred feet below.

“My Michelin!” I looked at him angrily, as
though the accident had been his fault.

“Your Michelin? I’m sorry.”’ He said it as
' though he meant it. “I’m sure it was all my
fault. A pity about the guidebook too. It must
have been rather outdated though. There
_hasn’t been a new Michelin on Morocco since
| 1954,”

I know,” I half wailed at my loss, “‘but it is

_ better than nothing. I was following the map.

I'll have to go all the way back to town to get
another.”

“But why don’t you get a guide?”

“I—Td rather go alone. But I want to know
something about what I’m seeing.”

“Well’—he hesitated—‘I could tell you
about the Casbah, if you like. Of course noth-
ing has happened here in the last hundred
years,””

“But you were going the other way.”

“It’s only a few steps back for me. I live
here.” He gestured vaguely upward, toward
the crenellated walls.

I looked up at him and really saw him for
the first time. He was much taller than I. He
was about thirty, I guessed, probably English;
certainly educated; and, I realized suddenly,
rather handsome,

He had an almost swarthy complexion and
thick black hair, but strangely, his eyes were a
bright blue. I looked at them almost in curi-
osity when I saw that he was smiling, waiting
for my answer.

“Thank you,” I said. ‘But, you know, I ask
a lot of questions; I really like to know about
things—history and the people who ruled
from here. I hope you don’t mind. It’s—it’s
the schoolteacher in me.” (Oh, how stupid;
now I’ve said it, | thought.)

He smiled again. “I don’t mind at all. Iam
a teacher too—of sorts. Ask anything you like,
but hurry. The museum closes at sundown.”

He took me firmly by the elbow and guided
me upward toward the crumbling fort.

I was a Strange tour: we looked at mosaic
walls, and harem courts; we talked about pal-
aces and forts, but our eyes and our questions
kept straying toward each other.

“This is the room where the sultan ate and
received his family. He had nearly forty
children.”

“Forty!”

“You—ah—don’t have any children, I
suppose?”

“No; I’m not married.”

“IT see. . .. Now these coffers were once the
royal treasury. They are solid cedar, bound
with iron. Empty, it would take twenty men to
lift them.”

I sniffed at the wood. ‘“‘Musty. No odor of
cedar at all. I have an old chest of my mother’s
at home and it still smells wonderful.”

“Where is your home? No—let me guess.
Georgia?”

“Is my accent that strong? I try to hide it,
but it slips out. ’'m from Louisiana.”

We stepped out of the stone treasure room
and back into the sunlight of the courtyard.

“How do you know all these things?” I
asked.

He smiled. ‘Tangier is my home. Its history
is rather a hobby of mine. Then, too, I majored
in North African studies in Cambridge—
language, history, all that.”

We climbed a cobbled passageway. A stone
arch over our heads made our footsteps echo.
Joseph turned into a door so low that he had
to stoop as he entered. I followed him up two
steep twisting flights of stone. The landing at
the top opened onto a terrace, the roof, really,
of a wing of the palace. A wooden lean-to had
been built at the opening of the stairway, and
here, at a counter, a young Arab boy sat. We
could see he was a waiter by his white shirt and
apron, but what he had to serve was a mystery,
for the counter and the two shelves behind it
were bare.

The terrace was empty except for a series of
little blue wooden tables and benches. The
wind pushed against us the moment we were
in the open; the masonry of the far wall was
waist high, so I ran to it, holding my skirt, and
sat down on a bench.

‘Finally a place to sit that isn’t roped off in
memory of some sultan and his sixteen wives!’

Joseph clapped twice for the waiter. The boy
came quickly. He addressed Joseph in Arabic,
as though he knew him well.

“What on earth did you order?” I asked.
“There isn’t a thing in sight.”

“You'll see; we'll be having tea and cookies
within five minutes. Watch; he is making it
now.”

I looked over to the stand. I could see no
one, but a thin curl of smoke was crawling up
from behind the counter and I could hear the
panting of a bellows.

“Yes, that’s the kitchen. He keeps a little
brazier down there, out of the wind, with all
his equipment on a tray beside him.”

The boy suddenly darted out from his hiding
place and went to a planted flower box stand-
ing on the edge of the wall. He picked a hand-
ful of greenery and disappeared again.

“Now that is symbolic,’ I said. ““Cannon
used to be fired from that spot, and now it is
used for a window box.”

“Not quite right. The cannon were fired
from this direction—look.” He waved his arm
toward the sea and the town.

Sunlight hit the white minarets. We could
see three of them and two church steeples
without turning our heads. Dotted throughout
the town were other domed shrines, painted
the invariable white. These and the roofs and

walls and gates of the town formed shadows
on one another, and reflected the light in de-
grees of intensity.

“Rather wonderful, isn’t it?” Joseph broke
the silence. “I’ve lived in a number of places,
but I always come back to Tangier.”

“It is beautiful. But what amazes me even
more are the people. They come from every-
where.” I had been overwhelmed, in the brief
hours since I had arrived, by the crowds in the
streets. Sari-draped Indian women, Japanese
and German businessmen, long-skirted gyp-
sies, uniformed Spanish and Moroccan sol-
diers, chic French matrons had rustled,
minced, rushed and plodded by me. I had be-
come suddenly conscious of the Dacron tray-
eling suit I had bought so proudly the year
before in New Orleans, and I wondered if the
fabric or my face labeled me as American. I
started to ask, but reconsidered.

He saw me check myself. ‘““What were you
going to say?”

“Nothing really. Just a silly question.”

“Well?”

“I just wondered if people tell by my clothes
or by my face that I am an American.”

He didn’t answer me. He changed the sub-
ject completely. ““My name is Joseph Krim.
What is yours?”

“Camille Singer.”

“How lovely. Tell me more.”

“More what? You know that I am an
American. I teach school. I am touring Tan-
gier and I will be leaving on the boat Monday
to go back to Eduardsville. That is my home
town—a little southeast of New Orleans. You
must meet dozens like me every week.”

Give-

UNITED
CEREBRAL
PALSY

“No, none like you. At least none who will
lose their guidebooks.”

“You make it sound as though I meant to.”

“Not at all. ’'m teasing. It was one of those
lucky accidents. But why did you ask me if I
knew you were an American? I did, of course.
It was quite obvious. Not just your clothes and
your accent. But the way you walk, like an
American, and your smile. Especially your
smile.”

“Please stop. ’'m embarrassed.” I tried to
push back a laugh, but it escaped. “I'll have
to wear a veil.”

“Whatever you do, don’t wear a veil.’’ He
said this almost intensely ; for some reason the
joke was dropped.

He picked up the gilded tumbler of tea and
twirled it slowly between forefinger and
thumb. The tea seemed muddy, and I sipped
at mine hesitantly. I put it down abruptly,
shocked at the taste. He looked puzzled at
first, then amused.

*‘T should have warned you. This is mint tea;
one quarter each of sugar, mint leaves, tea and
water. These are the leaves the boy was picking
from his window box. Don’t you like it?”

I sipped again. “‘Awfully hot. I'll wait a bit.”

*“No.”’ He demonstrated. ‘“‘Do it this way.
Suck it in. It’s all the more polite if you make
some noise. It’s no good if you wait for it to
cool.”

I tried again, then became bolder.

“Again,” he commanded. Then: ‘You were
about to tell me about yourself. Is this your
first trip abroad?”

He was, as always afterward, the perfect
listener. He really wanted to hear. So I told
him: all the details to bore a stranger—but al-
ready Joseph was no stranger.

“Abroad? Never.”’ It was almost a confi-
dence. “I came to Madrid to study last year.”

“Why Madrid?”

“IT won a scholarship. My school is going to
teach languages in the first and second grades,
and since I already spoke French, I was
elected.”

He raised an eyebrow.

““Why, everyone speaks French, or patois
anyway, in Eduardsville. It is Cajun country.
French Canadians, you know. They’ve been
there a couple of centuries, but they still speak
a sort of French. Not grandpa of course.”’ I
added, as though it explained everything, “My
grandfather is Eduard dePrey.”

He waited patiently. I blushed to think that
I had expected a stranger, three thousand
miles from home, to know how important my
grandfather was.

“That is—he isn’t a Cajun. His great-great-
great-great-grandfather founded Eduardsville.
He is very proud of it. Says he is the only
American in town.”

“And you love him?”

“He raised me. He is all the family I have,”
I said simply.

But Joseph was still waiting.

“Tt isn’t what grandpa does ; it is what he is.
He is a gentleman. [ mean he doesn’t work. He
never really had to because there was always
the land, or at least there was until he sold it.
He wanted the money so he could buy a house
in town that had been in the family years be-
fore.” I laughed. “A terrible bargain because
the land he sold had oil on it, and the house he
bought is about to cave in.”

“Then why do you laugh?”

“Tt is just thinking about the way grandpa
talks about it. There’s no one like him.”’

I was silent for a minute. But how to tell
anyone, anyone at all, of that day when the
letter had come, saying I had won the scholar-
ship? Whole new worlds were opening. I could
go to New Orleans to teach; I could get a fully
credited degree by going to night school; in the
summers maybe I could afford to travel. I
dreamed on... . But at the root of it, the im-
portant thing, was that I could finally get away
from Eduardsville. And I had thought grandpa
had not understood this. He seemed so proud
of my success, and so awed. as only a man
born in the nineteenth century can be, with the
number of miles I was to travel.

“Spain, eh?” He laughed. ‘Probably meet a
prince with a castle and never come home
again, like that Kelly girl.”

“Oh, grandpa,” I whispered, ‘now I can
start to be something.”

“I know, pet,” he answered just as softly.

Suddenly I saw all the weariness and despair
that he must have felt for years. The moment
passed; it was the only betrayal I had ever had
that he, too, had once had dreams and hopes
and plans.

All I said to Joseph, feeling awkward as I
said it, was, “There is something noble about
my grandfather.” The word sounded strange.

But Joseph understood. He nodded, and
lifted his glass in a gesture of respect.

“But you?” I was moved and tried to hide it.
“You didn’t tell me what you do.”

I told you. ’'m a teacher of sorts. Mostly
private students. And I guide my friends”
friends around the Casbah.”

“Only friends’ friends? None of your own?”

“None until you.” He lowered his eyes
briefly, as though there were something he was
unwilling to explain. “‘But tell me more about
your New Orleans.”

“What more can I tell you? I hardly know
the place. There never was the time—or the
money to go more often.”

“T can’t believe that. All Americans are very
rich. Or else you are not American at all. You
are just an afreet in disguise.”

“What is an afreet? It sounds horrible.”

“Not at all. An afreet is a genie—usually a
beautiful one. They were always popping up in
the Thousand and One Nighis. | don’t see why
you couldn’t be one. I’ve been thinking about
the questions you asked in the palace. No one
has ever asked me about those things before.
They simply were not touristlike questions.”
He began enumerating them on his fingers:
‘““Why were the kitchens so far from the dining
hall? Did the women ever leave the harem to
visit their families? Did they wear the same
kind of eye makeup that you saw on the veiled
women this morning in downtown Tangier?
How did they wash the gold-threaded cloth? I
could have told you how much gold it took to
fill the treasure chests, or how many slaves
were used to build the palace, or the range of
the cannon. But those questions! Strictly non-
tourist, non-American.”

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“Everything is so new to me, that I must
seem terribly ignorant. I have never thought
much before about how different Arabs and
Muslims are from us, and suddenly, seeing
them on the streets and going through a palace
Where sultans lived . . . 1 don’t know what I
expected; elephants and giraffes, maybe, be-
cause it is Africa, but not another world, like
this.” L gestured at the courtyard below us.
“Downtown everything seems so modern—
my hotel ——" L realized how foolish I sounded
and fell quiet. But only for a moment.

iF seemed natural that Joseph took me to
dinner that evening. He had an invitation to a
party afterward and I went along as a matter
of course.

“Roy Brady, another American,” he intro-
duced me to the host. “Roy, this is Cammie
Singer. I found her in the Casbah. If you have
any sense, you'll offer her a job tonight.” He
squeezed my elbow and left, heading toward
the crowd around the punch bowl.

I turned to Roy, He was older than Joseph,
perhaps about forty. His eyes were much
younger, though, and he regarded me with an
expression half childlike, half benign.

“Is this your first visit to Tangier?”

“My first day. I've never seen anything like
it. It’s like a tiny United Nations.”

“That's true. I arrived six years ago for a
one-year stay. I haven't left yet. You'll prob-
ably do the same.”

“Oh, I can’t. I have a ticket for Monday.
Going home.”

“And where’s home?”

“Louisiana. You're from the South, too,
aren't you?”

Mississippi.”

Joseph arrived with two cups of punch.
“Has Roy offered you a job yet?”

“Why should he?”

“Roy is the director of the American school
here. The doors open in ten days and he hasn’t
anyone to teach the first two grades. Why
don’t you take the job?”

“LT couldn't possibly. I have to get back.”

Roy looked at me with new interest. ““Have
you a contract somewhere?”

“No, but my family, my grandfather, is
waiting. We had planned—that is, had
hoped—to be in New Orleans this year. They
are short of teachers there, and I need to do
some university courses at night.”

“They couldn't be as hard up as we are.
What kind of courses were you going to take?”

“L need education credits. I have only a
teachers’-college degree.”

Joseph interrupted. “Take her, Roy. Don't
ask so many questions. Go around to her hotel
in the morning and sign her up. It is the Rem-
brandt, isn’t it?” He turned to me for con-
firmation.

Then a strong female voice broke in: “Hello.
I'm Phyllis—Phyllis Isten.** She was huge and
blond and jingling with gold. “Joseph tells me
you teach.”

“Yes,” I] answered. “Don’t you?”

“Do I look like a teacher? Roy invited me
because he is so sweet and because I gave him
a couple of scholarships for his precious
school.” She waved a jeweled hand toward a
grave, older man who was coming to join us.
“Here is my husband. Karl, I want you to
meet another of our new schoolteachers.”

I protested, “But I don’t teach here. I'm
from Louisiana. I'm going back on Monday.”

Karl bowed deeply. He was European, of
indeterminate nationality. “Louisiana, eh?
The land of Huey Long and General Chen-
nault and now, of beautiful school-
teachers.”

How many times over the next year Karl
Ilsten was to say the charming thing! He
seemed to exist, at parties, to be of service to
the guests, whether his own or someone else’s.
I realized how truly good a man he was when
later, knowing him better, I saw that he had no
real understanding of, no sympathy with and
no approval for the assorted types his wife in-
sisted on his meeting. His life in banks and
bonds was worlds apart from hers; because he
adored her, he bridged the gap.

I somehow was put on her meatattist that
evening. “You must ceme to lunch Saturday,
dear. You and Roy.” She waved a hand as
though to conjure up the meal, the guests, the
chatty atmosphere. “At one?”

Karl interrupted. “Miss Singer is with
Joseph, not with Roy.”

His wife looked at me, widening her eyes
slightly. “Oh? Well, you must come anyway.”
She laughed, but did not include Joseph.

We left very soon.

Joseph borrowed Roy’s car. “To take you
home, I told him. But really because I want to
show you the Caves of Hercules by moon-
light.”

It took some time to thread our way across
the town. The moon was out, as Joseph had
promised, and every shop along the boulevard
was neon-lit, gaping open and inviting. Voices,
calls, bright dresses, laughter floated up one
side of the street, down the other.

“Is the moon always this bright in Africa?”
I asked.

“Just on special occasions. This one is be-
cause you're here.”

“How silly. It's because it’s a nice time of
the year.”

“Not at all. We haven’t had a moon like this
since the sultan came back from exile. The
afreets arranged it as they arranged our meet-
ing this afternoon.’ He smiled a little shyly at
me, as if he hoped I'd go on with the game.

“They sound like gremlins. We have them in
America. Only gremlins are usually mean.
They do things like puncture tires, or make
you lose one glove of every pair.”

“Afreets can be mean too. But once in a
while you stumble across a nice one who takes
a personal interest in you. Now if ours just
follows through, shell make you lose your
ticket home so you'll have to sign a contract
with Roy.”

“Why do you talk so much about my stay-
ing? You know I can’t.”

We swung off the highway onto a narrow
road marked with a stone arrow saying Diplo-
matic Forest, and below it, Caves of Hercules.
The forest consisted of miles of twisted scrub
brush, with a dense undergrowth of fern,
opening only occasionally for bridle or foot
paths. A few patches of pine, some land too
rocky and sandy even for the brush, and then
suddenly the sea, a hundred and seventy feet
below us, at the foot of a jutting cliff.

Here the moon came into its own. Every-
thing, even our faces and hands, seemed silver.
We left the car near a retaining wall and
walked out to the edge of the rocks. The coast-
line was visible for miles to the south. The
scrub forest was below us, and we could see
the tortured bushes growing smaller and
smaller until they met final defeat at the edge
of the beach. The beach itself was full-grown,
glorious. But there was no way down to it. I
looked around for a path, and saw that only a
giant could have climbed that cliff. Cart-wheel
depressions had been cut out of the stone at
the edge of the precipice. Joseph held me back
from exploring further.

L hose were Hercules’s millstones,” he ex-
plained. “Just below us is his cave.”

Then I saw the reason for seeing the caves
by moonlight. The millstone cavities were pep-
pered so far down the side of the cliff that the
sea had filled them. The circles of water were
like gigantic coins sprinkled on the coast. The
roar of the waves echoed in the cave and was
funneled up to us.

A breeze from the sea made me shiver.

“Cold?”

“Not really. Just the wind. It’s wonderful
for August. Think of how hot and sticky
Madrid and New Orleans are right now.”

“And London, and New York, and Paris.
Let’s not talk about it.” He picked up my
hand and kissed it.

Hand kissing is a humble act. There had
been no pre-exploration, no fumbling to test
my reaction. There had been simply a kiss
given, and nothing asked. But suddenly a
what-will-people-think ? feeling swept over me
and I drew away involuntarily. I could hear my
grandfather asking, “And how did you meet
him? Who is his family? What does he do?”
At home it had seemed sensible to ask these
things. Now all I wondered was, Does he feel
about me the way I feel about him? For it had
been building up since the afternoon, through
dinner, through the party. No one had ever
talked to me the way he had; no one had ever
listened as he did, or had looked at me, or had
laughed with me, or had kissed me that way.

tow soon, how sudden is love? Long before,
had pictured the man whom I would love: he
vas to be blond and a little homely, but like
oseph in every other way. Joseph’s only fault
vas that he was handsome. Fall in love: that’s
yhat it was, a stumble in a carefully planned
fe. The expression was perfect. I smiled at the
ought of it. But was he really so handsome,
or was he just different from the sort of men I
vas used to seeing? I stole a look at him. He
vas watching me.

“When you're thinking, you look just like a
shild. Just now you were worried, then pleased,
hen curious. I could see it all on your face.
And then you looked at me. Why?”

“T wanted to see if you still looked the way
{ remembered.”

“You must have been miles away if you had
forgotten.”
“T was thinking of my grandfather. He used

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| “J didn’t kiss your hand because you're a
| lady. I kissed it because you're you, and I can’t
bear to think that you’re leaving. Look here,
-Cammie. Wasn’t it just about perfect this
afternoon? Wasn’t it more than special? You
aren’t playing games with me, are you?”
“No!” I was fierce. “This isn’t the sort of
thing one pretends.”
He was at my side; then, cupping my face in
his hands, he kissed me gently.
“Cammie, open your eyes,” he said softly.
I looked at him.
“Cammie, I have never said this to any
» woman.” The moon cast shadows on his face
as I stared at him. *“We’ve just been together a
| few hours but I know you're everything I ever
wanted in a woman—believe me, I love you.”
We hardly talked on the way back to town.
We smiled at each other, then shock hands
solemnly under the eyes of the hotel clerk.

When I woke next morning my first thought
was, J am in love. | stretched and felt the sun
warm on my arms. The world was bigger and
brighter than it had been the day before.

Roy joined me at breakfast. I tried to con-
centrate on all he said. But I was listening fora
call from Joseph. It did not come.

Roy admitted that he was desperate for a
teacher; he had brought a contract and hoped
I would sign. He wrote, while I finished my
coffee and croissants, a letter to my_college
asking for my credentials. He said he would
help me find a small apartment; that I would
like the other teachers. The salary was not
much less than what I earned at St. Martin’s. I
wondered how much of it I could send home
to grandfather. Wondering that, I realized that
I had already made my decision.

“‘Where’s the contract?” I asked, reaching
for my pen.

He glowed with pleasure and, I think, relief
as he folded the paper and tucked it back into
his coat. <5

“This calls for a celebration. It is a shame
Joseph couldn’t come, but it’s Friday and he
had to go to the mosque.”

“To the mosque?”

“Yes, he is rather serious about being a
good Muslim.”’ He stopped when he saw my
astonishment. ““He’s an Arab, you know.”

I saw Joseph that Friday after the noon
prayers. He came to me in a white dje/laba, the
robe Arab men, even the modern ones, wear
to the mosque. His face seemed darker against
the white robe and there was pain in his eyes
when he spoke.

_“T should have told you last night.”

“T know.”

“But I didn’t want to spoil it.”

“Would it have?”

“Perhaps. I wasn’t sure.”

Our eyes met and we knew that everything
we had said and felt the night before was still
valid. Our hands reached toward each other’s
as if of their own accord.

“There are problems. I’m from the South.

My grandfather ——”
- “I know. You are not quite sure what race I
belong to. Neither am I. But if it would please
him, I could tell him about my ancestors. They
go quite far back; farther than the Queen of
England’s.”’

I smiled. “Yes, grandpa would like that.
Ancestors are very important to him.”

We wrote the cable to my grandfather to-
gether. It was a long night letter because [
found there was no brief way to explain why I
was deserting him. I told him of the contract,
of the chance to practice teaching languages.
I said it was a wonderful opportunity, that
I loved him, and I signed it “Always, your
Cammie.” I did not mention Joseph. I saved
that for the letter I wrote that evening when I
was alone.

Months later I read what I had written and
was glad my grandfather had never seen the
letter.

Way do people elope? Is there such a thing
as love at first sight? I know the answers. Just
as I knew, the first afternoon that I spent with
Joseph, that I loved him, I knew, too, that we
would marry, and that no long waiting “to
get acquainted’”’ would make me any less cer-
tain that he was the man with whom I could be
happy over the years, and whom I could make
happy. I was so sure! I wanted to be with him
for every moment from then on. We gave our-
selves two days to talk. We had to; it was the
weekend.

“We'll argue it all out on Saturday and Sun-
day,” he had said, ‘“‘and on Monday we’ll be
married.”

I laughed at his presumption. We had
skipped all the preliminaries and had reached,
in a few hours, to the heart of the matter. We
loved each other.

On Saturday I went to luncheon at Phyllis
Ilsen’s. Roy was at the luncheon, and a school-
teacher from Ohio, Sara Chapin. None of us—
the three “educators,” as Karl gallantly
termed us—belonged in the paneled, carpeted
Parisian drawing room which Phyllis had cre-
ated for her husband. It was the perfect back-
drop for Karl Ilsen; it matched his size, his
culture and his charm.

The lunch itself was a masterpiece. It, too,
had been planned to please Karl. not to
pamper Phyllis’s figure. At the table I noticed
her hands. Her decisiveness could be seen in
just the way she held her fork or took a ciga-
rette out of its gold-mesh case and lighted it.
She had opinions or judgments on everything.
She was clever, and sometimes cruel, in the
way she spoke of people.

“Those Arabs, you know, Cammie. They
are handsome devils, some of them—like Jo-
seph Krim. But degenerate. You have to watch
out. VD. Generations of it, all of them.”

“Phyllis!” Karl sputtered at her from the
head of the table. He knew, as I discovered,
that she never said anything which was not cal-
culated for effect beforehand. Why did she
suddenly begin to talk of Arabs and of
Joseph?

Roy broke in. “Phyllis, you know Joseph is
one of my best friends, and certainly our best
instructor at the school. Whatever he is, I
should say he is closer to re-generate. Someday
he will surprise us all. He doesn’t like it to be
known, but besides the textbooks he is prepar-
ing, he is working on a history of North
Africa. He has publishers waiting for it. A de-
generate is someone who can’t produce, but
that boy is a powerhouse.”

Karl seemed ready to ask a question, but
Phyllis spoke first. “Correction taken—it’s just
that I am against all this nationalism. All the
same, there is something odd about him. He
never sees his own father, who owns the largest
house in the Casbah, after Barbara Hutton’s.
And I hear he has turned down at least five
good offers to work for the government, just so
he can stay here to teach a class or two for you
and to write his precious schoolbooks. Why
couldn’t he write in Rabat? Or work in the
Ministry of Education? It is definitely odd.”

Karl protested, trying to bring the talk back
to neutral ground. “My darling Phyllis, you
do not understand teachers. They can be as
dedicated as your artists. Wouldn’t you say
that is true, Miss Chapin?”

Miss Chapin seemed to be one of those
women who are proud that they never use
powder. She blinked when she was addressed,
and small thoughtful wrinkles appeared on her
shiny forehead.

“Are you asking me for a declaration of
faith? Sometimes, out of a whole year’s teach-
ing, one child will say something, or will show
just by his expression, that he has /earned, and

that will make the whole year’s work worth it.
It usually happens just when I’m ready to give
up. So here I am, ten years later.”’ She laughed,
so that we would not smile at how deeply she
had shown her feelings.

It would not have been fair to Jet her stand
alone.

“It’s true,” I agreed. “I’ve been teaching
only one year, but I can see that at times it is
something a person has to do, like painting or
writing.”

Miss Chapin looked at me gratefully, and
Roy beamed with pride.

After lunch Roy took Miss Chapin and me
to the old mansion which now served as a
school building, to collect supplies.

A white-haired woman called to us impa-
tiently as we approached the iron-grille gate,
“Hurry, Roy! I’ve been standing here twenty
minutes. You took the key to the gate, re-
member?”

Roy flushed like a schoolboy and fumbled
in his pocket. “I’m really sorry, Lady Mar-
garet. Here. Have you met our two new
teachers? Miss Chapin, Miss Singer. Lady
Margaret Mills is the school secretary.’’ He
waited for us to file through, then locked the
gate carefully behind us.

“Joseph had already told me of Miss Singer.
He is in love with her,’ Lady Mills announced

ABOUT
ee EE a
OF SHARKS

By JOHN CIARDI

The thing about a shark is—teeth.
One row above, one row beneath.

Now take a close look. Do you find
It has another row behind?

Still closer—here, I'll hold your hat:
Has it a third row behind that?

Nowlookinand...Look Out! Oh, my.
I'll never Know now! Well, good-by.

as we walked down the tile hall toward her
office.

Miss Chapin widened her eyes at me, and
Roy said, “I knew he’d be running to you.”

Lady Mills indicated two stacks of books.
Her manner was completely businesslike, but
I caught her watching me sign the receipt for
supplies and her blue eyes were twinkling. “As
soon as you two get apartments you'll have to
give me your permanent addresses. I take care
of reporting your employment, as aliens, to
the government.”

Roy laid his big hand on her arm. “*You’re
frightening them. Better tell them you are the
one who pays them and helps them with their
attendance records, and advises them where to
shop. ... Lady Margaret is really campaigning
for my job. She pretends she is trying to push
me into founding an American college for
North Africa, but what she really wants is for
me to leave so she can have my office. It has a
better view than hers.”

Miss Chapin and I escaped the answering
remark. Lady Mills had opened the door,
raised an eyebrow. As we filed out she winked
one electric-blue eye at me.

“Who is she?”’ I asked Joseph the moment I
saw him waiting for me on the steps of the
school.

He took my bundle, kissed me on the ear
and answered, “Who is who?”

“Lady Margaret Mills.”

“She is the most wonderful American, until
you, who has ever come to Tangier. She said
shell be a witness for us. She and Roy, on
Monday.”

““No wonder she winked. But a titled Amer-
ican?”

“She was born in Chicago and married an
English general about forty years ago. When
he was knighted for arranging a treaty some-

EEESSSSSSS:= +s cc rr

where in the Orient, she became a Lady. They
were living in Shanghai when he died. Then
the Communists moved in, and she moved
here. Said she chose Tangier because it was
international like herself. She lives in an old
place not far from here. You’ll see it tomor-
row. She’s invited us for tea.”

“You know her well.”

“Yes. She’s a friend, and one of my students
too. She does my typing for me, and in ex-
change I teach her Arabic. At sixty she has
decided to learn another language!”

He had tucked my arm under his, and was
leading me down a narrow street toward the
center of the native quarter, the old Medina.

““Where are you taking me?”

“To my room. We can talk there.’”’ The pas-
sage was now no wider than arm spread. Sun
light touched only the top windows of th.
buildings on either side of us. The cobblestones
on which we walked were in a gloomy shadow.
The architecture and the construction were all
Moorish here, and as ancient as time.

A few more twists in the alley, through a
door cut in what must have been a carriage
gate, up a flight of steps ——— I remember I re-
coiled when I first stepped through that door
into the tiny courtyard beyond. Joseph started
to climb the steps and I followed.

The room was not empty as I had expected.
An old woman squatted on the floor near the
door. She grinned and scurried out wordlessly
when we arrived.

The only furniture was a desk, a straight
chair, a couch and a huge chest. A water glass
holding five roses had been placed carefully in
the center of the desk. The inevitable tea sery-
ice was laid out, waiting by the couch. Beyond
the flowers there was no attempt at decora-
tion. The only personal touch was the books.
The entire wall behind the desk, the free space
between the two tall windows, the area behind
the door and above the couch were all taken
up by books.

“Seven hundred and sixty-eight books,” he
said with almost boyish pride.

The old woman came back to the room with
a steaming teakettle. While she busied herself
making the tea I walked around the room,
reading titles: History of the Saharan Caravan
Trails; The Phoenicians in North Africa; a
French edition of Leo Africanus, Spanish-
Arabic dictionaries, and five shelves of books
in Arabic.

I turned to Joseph. “Tell me, have you read
them all?”

He shrugged, then smiled. ““No, I have only
skimmed them. They are mostly for reference.
That is why I brought you here. So you could
see what I’m doing. You must understand why
I don’t have a regular job or a position.’ He
was apologizing, hastening to explain. “I have
here nearly every word that has ever been pub-
lished about Morocco. But nowhere is there
an accurate, readable history, or school text. I
had to go to England, and then to Paris, to
learn what is known about my country.’ He
picked up a huge leather-bound book and,
opening it, came to stand at my side where we
could share the light. “This one, this is the
latest 4

Hi words were cut off by the sound of the
old woman sucking in her breath. She was still
intent on teamaking, but the noise was some-
how intended for us. Joseph tightened his arm
on my shoulder.

“This history was written in 1610 ——

The old woman coughed. Her meaning was
plain; I moved away from Joseph.

“Go on, darling,” I said.

“Why are you going away? Blast it, I want
you to see this.”’ He turned to the woman and
said something sharply in Arabic. She looked
at him blankly. He threw up his arms, an-
noyed. “What am I going to do? She pretends
she is deaf. She always pretends she’s deaf, or
sick. She hasnt cleaned my room for a week.
Until today; she knew you were coming and
she began hopping around like a gazelle.
Flowers even. First time I’ve ever had flowers.
And now she won’t leave the room.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Then why don’t
you fire her?”

“Fire her? She is I mean ——” He
stopped, as if the question were so unthinkable
that an answer simply did not exist. “I
couldn’t. She has no place else to go.”

“Then tell her that you'll pay her less if she
doesn’t do better.”

Joseph shouted something at her, then threw
up his arms again. “It is no use. We’ll have to
sit and drink tea for the next two hours. How
could I pay her less? I don’t pay her anything
as it is. She eats here, and has a room down
the hall, and I buy her a gold bracelet now and
then.’’ He glared at her, and drew up the chair
from the desk. I sat on the couch near the tea
service. He perched on the chair facing me
across the low brass tray.

I looked at the woman in wonder. ‘She is
chaperoning you, and yet she’s hardly more
than your slave!”

She sat there, unconscious of my regard,
peering into the teapot, grinding the rock
sugar into powder, arranging, rearranging the
glasses on the tray. A brilliant green scarf coy-
ered her hair. She wore a yellow print dress,
with the hem pulled up and tucked into her
belt. Billowing out under her skirt as she
squatted were long red bloomers, reaching to
her feet and buttoned tightly around each
ankle. Her face was dark and wrinkled, but the
lines were in the right places for smiles, and I
felt the woman was kind. She certainly was not
unhappy. She seemed content and prepared to
sit in that spot until the walls decayed around
her.

Joseph protested my definition. ““Of course
she isn’t a slave. She can go where she likes.
But we are her only family. Her father was a
herdsman; when her mother died, he gave her
to my grandmother. She and my mother grew
up together. She helped raise me. When I left
home, she asked to come with me. My mother
agreed. How could I offer her a salary? It
would be like paying my own aunt.”

It was an odd story for a Southerner to hear
in Africa. But being Southern, perhaps I un-
derstood more than another would have. From
that day on I, too, called the old colored
woman Halti: “Sister of my mother.” If only
we could have talked! But perhaps even she,
who became my closest ally, would not have
told me what was behind her insistence on
chaperoning us.

No, it was Joseph who talked that day. He
seemed so anxious to explain everything, to
tell me about himself, his family, his hopes for
the future, his work.

He was born in Tangier. His father’s house
was built on land owned by his family since
Columbus’s time. Five hundred years in
Africa, and before that five hundred years in
Spain. He owed his fairness and his blue eyes
to his mother, for she was a Berber from the
Rif hills behind the city. Though a Muslim,
she had never worn a veil. When Joseph’s fa-
ther, on a trip into the Rif, had seen the tall,
blue-eyed beauty, he immediately arranged to
marry her. Her father was a minor regional

judge, and readily agreed to give the eighteen-
year-old girl to the man of fifty, for the match
was to her advantage. She moved to her new
home in the city and found that though the
favorite, the toy, the joy of her husband, she
was Wife No. 3 in his household. She joined
the harem; she learned to wear the veil; she
struggled to learn the classic Arabic of the
town. The other wives’ jealousy, then her
aging husband’s indifference left her only
Joseph, and she centered her life and her hap-
piness around him.

ae 1

She wasn’t a stupid woman. She should
have been taught to read and write so she
would have had at least that—instead to lock
her up, and to veil her!” Now, thirty years
later, Joseph still felt indignation at her treat-
ment.

“I grew up among those squabbling women.
My half brothers and sisters were much, much
older than I. Seeing my mother wither in that
courtyard, in the midst of that vacant conver-
sation and the bickering of the three wives, I
swore I would never have but one wife, and
the one I chose would have to be educated,
someone I could talk to. My father knew she
was lonesome, that she was unhappy. He was,
heis, a tyrant, but his heart is good. He bought
her jewels and gifts—and everything he gave
her only made the others more jealous

“Then when I was ten, the war broke out in
Europe. My father had two old houses over-
looking the sea and Gibraltar. One he rented
to the Germans, and the other to the English!

The Germans spied on the ships which went
through the straits and the English spied on
the Germans. My father became very rich in
marks and pounds that way. But my mother’s
father in the Rif was very pro-English. He even
accepted British citizenship from a consul he
had entertained for a hunt. Don’t be so sur-
prised; that sort of thing was quite common in
those days.

“Somehow my mother knew that she had
the right to be a British citizen. When the
rumor was heard that the Germans might oc-
cupy Tangier she went to the English consulate,
produced the proper papers and presto! I, too,
had dual _— citizenship—English-Moroccan.
Then she told my father. She announced that
she wanted to send me to school in England.
I'll never forget the scene that followed that.
But eventually he gave in.

“I was sent to a small public—pardon me,
private—school near Salisbury. I think some-
how they had the idea that I was the son of

| DREAMT
| DEALT WITH
TOYMAKERS ALL

By JANICE HAYS

You planners and makers of
intricate toys,

So swiftly dismantled by small,
busy boys,

| condemn you to labor until you
have cleaned up

Each modular bauble you've cannily
dreamed up:

All building bricks, peg people,
snap beads and blocks,

Take-apart farm friends,
dismemberable clocks.

Be sure that you fit them all neatly
within

Their cylindrical cardboard
containers—and men,

That means /n, with the lids firmly
fastened in place;

And if you should find you've more
gewegaws than space,

Just empty the cartons and quickly
begin

To tuck each small plaything away
once again.

some Eastern potentate. At any rate, I was
treated royally. I learned English rather
quickly; the masters tutored me in the other
subjects; my classmates invited me to their
homes; in the seven years I stayed in the coun-
try I became more British than John Bull.

“T was eighteen and the war was over when
I came home for the first time. I hardly knew
my own people. When autumn came and I
went up to Cambridge, I felt as though I were
leaving a prison. Do all young people feel this
way? I had no idea of what I wanted to do;
only a very clear idea that I did not want to
translate in my father’s shipping office. That
was the future he had planned for me. He let
me go to the university only because I con-
vinced him that that was the best place for me
to learn more languages.

“It was a don at Cambridge who saved me.
He held the chair for Arabic studies, and he
gave me a feeling, for the first time, that I had
come from a great people who had once cre-
ated a great civilization. You can’t imagine
how he changed my life. I was amazed to dis-
cover that my professor even knew the history
of my own family. He was able to show me
old books which mentioned my ancestors, and
told of the work they had done in Cérdoba
and Tunis.

“It had been arranged by my tutors that
certain of my studies should be taken in Paris,
at the Ecole d’Afrique du Nord, When I was

twenty-one, I published my first paper, in
English; a treatise on the trade agreements
between the Barbary States and medieval Eu-
rope. It was based on research I had done in
Paris and London.

“By the time I returned to pick up my degree
at Cambridge, my professor asked me to join
a project he was heading; we were to go to
Damascus and Cairo to classify Arab docu-
ments which had never been copied for Euro-
pean libraries. My job was to help microfilm
and to translate any new manuscripts we
might find.

I told my father that I had no intention of
working for him, and that I would be leaving
soon for the Middle East. When he heard how
little I would be earning with the expedition,
he was furious, and he disowned me—or at
least cut me out of as much of his will as he
was able to under our Koranic laws. I dreamed
of someday doing something so great that I
should restore our name to the fame it had
once known, and show my father that of all
his sons I was the best and the wisest. How
foolish I was! The work that I did on the ex-
pedition was exciting to me, but it was not at
all dramatic to the laymen, nothing like the
story of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

“We had financing for one year; six months
in Egypt, six in Syria. When the year was up, I
did not come home. I visited Persia and Iraq
and Turkey, even the interior of Arabia and
Mesopotamia. I earned my way by translating,
or by guiding English touring groups. I was in
Lebanon when my mother telegraphed me:
‘Come home immediately, I am dying.’ She
wasn’t, of course; it was just that she missed
her little boy. I took the first transportation I
could find, and found her in the courtyard
applying henna to her feet! She was happy as a
lark and completely unregretful about forcing
me to come in such a hurry.

*“Ttis time for you to marry. Youare twenty-
four now,’ she said.

“She had chosen the girl; my father would
surely forgive me anything. She was rich, a
distant cousin whom I remembered vaguely
from my visits to the hills. She was eighteen,
old enough to be married.

“And besides, I want grandchildren,’ my
mother ended her argument petulantly.

‘There was no answer to that; I could only
say I would consider it. In the morning I saw
my father. He was almost eighty. His hair was
white and he had become a bit more religious.
The first question he asked was, ‘Have you
been to Mecca?’ That I had pleased him, but
otherwise he had not changed an iota.

‘““*Tomorrow you start work. The girl’s fa-
ther will make a good settlement, I’ve seen to
that. The wedding will be at the end of
Ramadan.’” Joseph paused. The dark had
gathered, and I could not see his face.

“What happened? Did you marry her?”

“No,” he finally answered. I let out the
breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding.

He went on quickly, ““My father thought I
was mad to refuse work, money and a beautiful
wife. I left his house then and have never been
back since. Oh, occasionally, Pll go to my
mother’s quarters when he is away, but gener-
ally mother slips away to visit me here. When I
walked out I had no money, and my father
knew it. When Roy offered me a job teaching
I took it gratefully. It was in his school, seeing
the inadequate texts that were all that were
available, that I first had the idea of writing a
modern history of our people. I began my
work. Five years now, and the first volume is
nearly ready.” He laughed, as though at him-
self. ‘I, who wanted to be famous to impress
my old father!”

‘‘What will he think, now that you are going
to marry an American?”

“He We needn’t tell him. I never see
him anyway. But my mother is different.” He
was almost boyish again in offering consola-
tion for the imaginary wound. “I’ve told her
about you; she is genuinely pleased. Halti too.
Halti’s one fear is that you won’t want her to
work for you. She is quite a good cook—and
since we’ll both be working, you'll need some-
one to keep the house. I told her that you’ve
asked about a housekeeper.”

I hadn’t, but I was glad that he had tried to
please the old woman. Of course I would
need her.

i
|

LADIES’ HOME JOURNGS

poe
He went on, “I know of a place where we
can live. On a hill, but close to town. A view o}
the bay and the sea. A study and bedrooms,
and a box-sized kitchen.” f
As we Sat there, bathed by moonlight and
the soft sea breeze, I had that strange sensa-
tion of having been in this room in some past
age. I had found my future, that part of my-
self which had been missing. Much as I loved
my grandfather, it was here, with Joseph, that |.
my heart was home.

The hill which leads to Chauen is long and
hot and dry, but Joseph stopped the car be-
fore we reached the top. He wanted to climb })....;
the last steep slope on foot. i.

We had been married that morning. Lady -
Margaret Mills and Roy stood with us a
promised, and toasted us in champagne at
breakfast for four at her house. Lady Mills
kissed me and for a moment I felt a pang of |
regret that I had not waited to be married at
home, where grandpa could have been the one
to stand with me. But there was not time and
there was not the money; grandpa would |
understand—he always did.

Joseph and I had not spoken on the two-
hour ride to Chauen. When he stopped and} si.
urged me to climb the rest of the way, I was Js:
disappointed, for the singing of the tires, and }.
the wind in my hair, and the slight warmth of
Joseph’s arm next to mine had mesmerized me
and made me dream.

But he had been right. Soon we were walk-
ing on moss, and able to look from between
the clumps of trees out over the whole valley
of Ben Rashid. Waves of heat rose from the
silent barren plains, but our eyrie was alive
with the dull roar of falling, rushing water. We
pushed our way through the last brambles of
stunted pine and found ourselves at the source
of the falls. I sat on a rock and let the water
cool me. I felt it wash over me, fill me, like my
happiness. I shivered.

“Cold?”

“No... happy.”

““Nice. Me too.”

There was a pause.

‘‘What are in those sacks?”

*‘Where? What sacks?”

I pointed. A caravan of laden donkeys
plodded along the road below us. They were
being goaded by a woman wearing a hat so
huge that, from our height, we could see hardly
more than her feet and her stick-laden hand
jutting out below its rim.

“Wheat. Ground at the mill in town.”

The woman turned the lead donkey off the
road and headed him along a faint path to-
ward a spur in the hills.

“Where is she going? There isn’t a house for
fifty miles in that direction!”

“Oh yes, my sweet. There are whole villages
within shouting distance. You just don’t see
them. No more than you see the three people,
two boys and an old woman, who are watch-
ing us right now.”

en. Th

Rex ?” T looked around startled. “I don’t
see a soul.”’ The glen was empty, then a move-
ment above us caught my eye. A flock of goats
was grazing on the hillside, and two little boys
were sitting on the rocks staring down at us. I
laughed. ‘‘Have they been there all along?”

“Yes; that is why I haven’t tried to kiss you.
Mustn’t shock the young.”’

Suddenly I saw the old woman. She was
quite near us, standing silent and still as a
tree on the other side of the spring. I raised
my hand to greet her, but she shambled for-
ward with her bucket. She muttered a response
to Joseph’s ““God be with you,” turned her
back to me and busied herself with the water.
I could not hide my distaste, and when
Joseph saw my expression he took me abruptly
by the hand and pulled me up.

“Come along. We’ll go to the hotel by the
back way. I can send someone for the car.”

That was the beginning of it, I suppose. The
feeling that I was always being watched.
Halti, yes; she was always there. But hers was
a friendly presence. The other feeling was
sinister, a judging, and I half feared a mo-
ment when I should unwittingly commit the
watched-for sin, when I should trespass on
some hallowed custom and my specter should
spring out from the shadows accusing me in a
language I could not yet understand.

ANUARY, 1962

If Joseph realized this, he did not show it.
hy the time we had reached the hotel he was
)» ughing again, threatening to carry me over
» ne threshold, waving to people he knew in

he square, introducing me to the hotel man-
,» ger. Only when we had finally closed the door
f our room behind us did he comment.

He held me by the shoulders and tipped my

in as though I were a child. ““Don’t worry,
‘ttle one. She was an old, old woman, and she
‘omes from the hills. Every stranger is an
‘/nemy there. The trouble is that for most of

er life it has been quite true. Someday

ou’ll understand.”’

» Early in the morning the third day of our
}oneymoon, I became acquainted with the
arabian horse.

You never see the Arabian grazing in
orocco. The uncurried old wrecks of plow

-orses, yes. Donkeys clutter the roads. Cam-

ls, alone or in family-size herds, pose like

)ieces in an abandoned stage set. But the

) 2gendary horses, the “drinkers of the wind,”

imply are not there. They are too precious.

) hey live in stables, and are pampered like
srides, and are let out to run on feast days.
But it does not take a great rider to control

‘hem. Their charm lies in their quick response:

| change in knee pressure, a shift of weight, a

lightening of the fist, and I, even I, could be

one with an Arabian horse.

Very early in the morning we had driven
ut to the farm of a cousin of Joseph’s. The
vomen wore no veils here, and came to their
loors or out into the road to wave openly as
‘ passed. One last group of stone houses

tood at the end of the rutted road, and it was
here that Joseph had, somehow, arranged to
sorrow his cousin’s two Arabian horses. His
‘ousin was grinning when he led the capering
yeauties Out of the stone stable.

“He doesn’t believe that you can ride,”

oseph translated. “But I told him that with
“hese saddles you couldn’t miss.”
_ It was true. The brilliant red saddle was
ike a padded chair. As soon as I pressed my
«ees against the sleek flanks and felt the
inimal sidestep, I knew I could control him.
Ahmed approved in spite of himself and,
ightening the girth, gave the stallion a slap to
tart him on our turns around the yard.

“Walk, canter, run or gallop, but don’t try
0 trot,” Joseph warned. ‘“‘He doesn’t know
now.” He watched me anxiously. His look
hanged to pride, and I caught him almost
reening when he shook hands with Ahmed
ind mounted his own blue-trapped mare.

He had slipped a djellaba over his riding
lothes, and had insisted on my wearing a scarf,

“This African sun can fool you. We have
wo hours to go, and I want you to arrive
deautiful, not addled.”

He had not told me why or where we were
zoing.

Y¥e threaded our way upward and capped
aill after hill; we could see more and more of
the Valleys below us. And looking across them
we could see the peaks of-other hills, clear,
Joating like islands above the morning mists.
Finally the hills gave way to a graveled pla-
ceau where it was safe to give rein. When
Joseph raised his hand and flashed a smile
back at me, the stallion caught the signal. He
reared slightly as if in joy, then burst ahead in
a gallop so smooth that I could call to
oseph as I came abreast of him:

“Most wonderful horse I’ve ever ridden!”

“Don’t rein him in short. I forgot to tell
you.”

I heard him. But who would have thought
of jerking the reins on such an animal? He
went with the wind, and I felt the swift air in-
side my shirt, around my back, felt it cool my
legs and push back my scarf and play the

hirlwind in my hair. It was that glorious feel-
ing that only riders know.

Then gently, easily, as we approached an
unexpected village, I pulled him in. Joseph
passed me, raced to the village. He swung me
down from the saddle.

“Oof! I can’t straighten my legs.”

“Don’t try. Sit on the ledge.”

leased myself down gingerly. ““Do we have
much farther to go?”

“This is it. This is my mother’s village.

ell spend the night here.”

A man came rushing toward us, his woolen
robes flapping.

“Bachir!”’ Joseph ran to embrace him. The
whole village seemed to be following behind
and I was engulfed in a wave of robes and
bright head veils which flowed like billows or
remnant yardage around the beaming faces.

Joseph gripped my elbow. “Bachir is my
uncle’s son. He is a sort of sheriff of the dis-
trict now, as my grandfather used to be.
Aisha, here, is his wife. Hamed is another
cousin. Dauia is his sister.”’

He kissed them all, let the children kiss his
hand and motioned me to do the same. If
only he had warned me, I thought. But of
what? His family were all heart, and if I
struck them as an oddity, in my riding pants
and with my now uncovered blond head, they
had the grace and politeness not to show it.

“Go with Aisha.’ Joseph pushed me away
gently.

Where? Why? Completely confused, I had
to be led away by Aisha, the beautiful Aisha,
to the bathhouse. A convoy of smiling, chat-
tering women closed around us. It did not seem
to occur to any of them that I could not under-
stand one thing they said.

The bathhouse was a dim, steam-filled little
building in the center of the village. I had to
stoop to pass under its stone lintel. I hesitated
Just inside the door, blinking in the darkness.
Aisha shoved me toward a tile bench; I sat
down. A young girl knelt to take off my boots.
Another ran to give an order to the attendant.
Soap, sponges, towels appeared, all amid a
torrent of talk and the frenzied flurry of cloth-
ing. Women tested the water and poured it
steaming over me; they gossiped and smiled
and nodded as they scrubbed me with emery
stones. I never dreamed I could have been so
dirty. I never dreamed I could be so clean.
They stretched me on a board and rubbed me
down and smoothed me with oil and brushed
my hair, and never once in all this time did
they stop their torrent of cheerful words.

Finally Aisha straightened up, motioning
for the clothes. This, then, was a Turkish bath!

How Joseph laughed when he saw how they
had dressed me! “‘The jewelry! You look like
a shopwindow.” He lifted the hem of my
dress. “Just as I thought: two dresses, panta-
loons, what else? Two head scarves. You look
gorgeous. A real bride.”

I felt bridelike, certainly more than I had
in the linen sheath in which I had been mar-
ried. After they had decked me in their best,
the women had brought me to the room where
we were to sleep that night. It was in Bachir’s
house. The construction was primitive, of
hand-hewn stones, but the rooms were large
and cool, laid with tiles and hung with rugs.
I stepped through the parted curtains which
served as doors and posed in their frame.

Joseph had washed and changed too. He
lay on the rug-covered bed looking up at the
ceiling. He turned his head, and I pirouetted
to show my treasures: a gold, jewel-set band
across my forehead; three-inch filigree ear-
rings held on by threads, for my ears were not
pierced; five strings of gold coins hanging
in heavy rows down to my waist; and on each
arm, slim gold bracelets from wrist halfway to
the elbow. Underneath it all I felt the silk of
the all-concealing pantaloons, buttoned tight
at ankle and waist. Just the edge of their blue
ankle bands showed below the pale green
brocade dress which in turn was covered by a
filmy white embroidered-net overdress. My
slippers had pointed toes, and were made of
black velvet embroidered with gold.

That night I did not find it odd that Aisha
and the other women ate at the table with the
men. There was a feast, it was a family party,
why not the husbands and wives together? As
natural as it seemed in the mountains, I was
never to see it in the town. Time after time I
was to be the only female at the table in
Moroccan homes. The wives and mothers,
even the most modern of them, served or
waited in another room to be given the plat-
ters that the men had finished with. And this
feeling that the women were separated even
during the intimate family meals heightened
my sense of being different, of being watched
and judged so constantly.

But the first feast in the mountains was un-
spoiled. All day we had smelled the roasting

12:30 pm

Lunch with
the girls

10:00 am

Shopping

3:00 pm
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» 6:30 pm

Meet Harry
for dinner

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mutton, heard the pounding of almonds,
sht whiffs of saffron, parsley or raisins. In
late afternoon, after the siesta hour, we
d the first guests arriving, and soon they
streamed in, on horseback, on mules, on foot.
Musicians stationed themselves in the court-
yard and tentative beats on the sheepskin
drums, soft pipings on the reed flutes and an
experimental twang on the rebab strings called
us out of our room.

I had been sleeping. When I woke, I felt
the bracelets weigh on my hands and, re-
membering, I looked down at my clothes and
laughed to think of myself, I, Cammie Singer
Krim, transported into the Arabian Nights. I
stretched, luxuriating. Joseph had gone; I sat
up and combed my hair in front of a mosaic-
framed mirror. Aisha had painted my eyes
with kohl, a black mascara, and had tipped
my fingers with henna. I stepped out the door
and into the courtyard.

Rugs lined the huge patio. Couches had
been pulled out of the rooms to form a low
horseshoe of seats around the yard. Small
round tables were placed in front of the divans
and already guests were sitting in groups
around these. Aisha raised an arm in greeting
when she saw me. She rushed over to me, call-
ing something to the groups she left, and
pulled me back to join them. Joseph was with
them. He stepped back to let me join the
circle.

“They want you to show off your dress,
darling. You’re wearing the wealth of the vil-
lage, you know. Twirl.”

I twirled. There was vast approval.

We were motioned to our seats. Huge plat-
ters of food had been carried in and set on the
ground just at the edges of the rugs. One dish
at a time was placed on each low table. I was
hungry, for we had had no lunch. So I ate
well, not realizing that the platter of chicken
baked in saffron and raisin sauce, served with
fresh green peas, was only the first of twelve
courses. A roasted lamb appeared next, a
whole one for each table; then a beef-and-
vegetable stew. I was dismayed by the quan-
tities we were expected to consume. The more
Late, the more Bachir, sitting next to me, urged
me to eat. I looked in desperation to Joseph,
but he raised his eyebrows blandly, as if he
did not understand my discomfort. I leaned
back, relieved when the fourth platter of meat
was carried away, but sat up in horror to see a
white mountain of couscous set in front of me.
I was ready to pop at the next spoonful.

Joseph finally saved me. “This is the end,”
he announced. ‘‘Just take one bite, smile to
show how good it is, and then lay your spoon
down firmly. No one expects you to be hun-
gry after all that.”

“Oh yes?” I tasted the steamed meal as he
told me to, smiled in delight, and then put my
spoon down. Joseph had lounged_ back,
satiated; he winked at me sleepily. Only Aisha,
sitting at the end of the couch where she could
direct the service, seemed capable of making a
move. She called for tea and rose to prepare
the service in front of her husband.

The tea restored us. We lay back sipping
tea, watching the tapers fixed in the wall
around the courtyard flame up and send black
spirals of smoke into the sky. A pair of mock
fencers armed with staffs pranced forward, to
weave and duck and slash at each other in a
grotesque parody of a duel. This was a com-
mon sport, Joseph explained; it went back to
the days when the French kings sent courtiers
as ambassadors to the sultans of Morocco.
The courtyard was full now, and in groups
all around its edges other spontaneous fencers
or dancers cleared smaller circles and per-
formed to the beat of the drums and hand-
claps. No one seemed sleepy or even tired, ex-
cept myself. I stole a look at my watch. Two

A.M. We had been sitting there since six.

Aisha had been watching us and must have
seen, even in the dim light, Joseph’s lips brush
my hair.

“She says we should go to bed,” he said.
“Then, she says, Bachir will start looking at
her instead of you.”

“She can’t be jealous.”

“Of course she isn’t. She’s just teasing. She
has Bachir just where she wants him. He could
afford at least two more wives, but he doesn’t
even think about anyone but Aisha. If I didn’t

know her so well, I would believe what people
say about her, that she gives him love potions.”

He said this quite seriously. I turned to look
at him. “All this talk about potions and hav-
ing a bevy of wives! I thought all that was
over.”

“Until last year, my sweet, polygamy was
legal. There are many men younger than
Bachir who have two or more wives. They
married before the new laws about marriage
and divorce were passed. The Koran actually
urges a man to marry all the wives, up to
four, that he can support. There are still
many people who feel that this should be
taken literally.”

The doctor took a second look at the slip
of paper his secretary had given him, then
said to Donna Jeffry in a puzzled tone, “You
have come for a pre-engagement examina-
tion? I must confess that’s a new one on me.”

“IT am a diabetic, Doctor,’ the pretty,
healthy-looking young woman‘ explained.
“Thanks to Insulin, I have been leading a
perfectly normal life. Now I would like to
marry, but I understand that when diabetic
women get pregnant, very bad things can
happen to them and their babies. Hal, the
young man I’m in love with, insists that
babies aren’t necessary to a happy marriage.
But I think he would like children—I cer-
tainly would—and I know, too, that preg-
nancy can occur when people don’t intend
it. It seems to me it would be pretty rough
on Hal if I were to die having a baby, or if
the baby turned out to be defective.”

“Your question, then, is whether your
diabetes makes it inadvisable for you to be-
come engaged and marry?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“IT see. Suppose I give you the over-all pic-
ture of pregnancy in diabetes, as it stands
today, before we go into your own case.
Your impression is correct in that the out-
look for diabetic mothers and their babies
used to be pretty grim. In fact, in the old
days—before Insulin, that is—few women
with serious diabetes were able even to be-
come pregnant. Among those who did, the
mortality rate was around fifty per cent for
the mothers, and as high or higher for the
babies. Since we have had Insulin, however,
thousands of diabetic women have come
through pregnancy and childbirth success-
fully and with fine, normal babies. The
record has been getting better all the time.
The mortality rate now for diabetic mothers
is down almost to zero, and the mortality
rate for the babies has also dropped sig-
nificantly. We are trying very hard to bring
the baby death rate down farther still.

“Much depends on the mother’s age, and
the length of time she has had diabetes. If it
began in childhood, it is apt to be more

“Well, you better not! Find another wife,
and I'll. . . scratch your eyes out!”

“Mine? Why not the other wife’s?”’

“Yours. Because you’re the one’—I was
surprised at the vehemence of my jealousy, and
finished my sentence, running my hand over
his cheek—‘“‘whom I love. Tell Aisha she is
right. I'll go to bed.”’ I turned to shake hands
with Bachir and to speak directly to him:
“Good night; the evening has been perfect.”

Joseph rose to help me up. He and Bachir
laughed together at some joke. Aisha moved
over to take my place on the couch and as we
left I saw her handing her husband a filled
pipe, then arranging the cushions behind him.

“I’m in love, Doctor,

but Iam a diabetic and

! understand that diabetic women
shouldn't have babies.

Is it wrong for me to

think of marriage ?”

serious and to remain that way. And preg-
nancy is apt to be more dangerous for older
diabetics and their babies, though the dia-
betes itself is usually less severe when con-
tracted at a later age. However, there aren’t
any hard-and-fast rules. By and large, it is
the severity of the diabetes, and the extent to
which it is controlled by diet and Insulin,
that are the determining factors. The amount
of damage the disease had done to bodily
organs and functions is important too.”

Turning now to Donna’s situation, the
doctor learned that she was twenty-one, and
had acquired the diabetes at sixteen, which
removed her from the area of childhood vic-
tims. Her excellent internist, Dr. Beeson,
had been able to control the disease with
little difficulty.

“So far, so good,” the doctor said. ‘‘Five
years of diabetes isn’t too long a time, and
you are far from being in the ‘too old’
bracket. Though if pregnancy is in the cards
for you, I would say that the sooner it can
happen, the better. A longer period of the
disease, even under treatment, might change
the picture. Now then, Donna, tell me what
Dr. Beeson had to say about all this. You
must have discussed it with him.”

“You're right, Doctor. I took my question
to Dr. Beeson first of all, and he told me he
didn’t know any reason why I should fear
motherhood. But he said that if trouble does
come up in pregnancy, there may be a good
deal that the obstetrician will have to cope
with, so he advised me to get an obstetrical
opinion too.”

“That was foresighted and smart. I am
sure he will agree that the next step is to put
you in a hospital for a few days, for a series
of tests. You probably know that pregnancy
can complicate things rather badly in dia-
betes if general bodily functions have been
interfered with to a serious extent by the
disease. In addition to repeated blood-
sugars, Dr. Beeson would run tests to de-
termine the condition of your kidneys,
circulatory system, liver and so on. I would
conduct a thorough gynecological examina-

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

We let the heavy curtains drop over our
doorway. They muffled the music and made
it seem very far away.

I turned my back to Joseph so that he could
undo the complicated clasp of the necklace,
He helped me unbutton the dress, counting
as he worked.

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Thank}! t

heaven you don’t wear dresses like this all the
time. Lift your arms.”

He slipped the dress over my shoulders,
folded it, and laid it next to the jewelry. |
watched him regretfully.

“But it was lovely to wear just once. I felt
beautiful in it.”

ry
‘SS .
a
SP), 7
—
—

tion. That will give us a much better idea
about what would be likely to happen to you
if you were to become pregnant.”

After all the tests and examinations were
completed, the doctor told Donna, ‘‘Dr.
Beeson and I concur that your prospects are

excellent to become pregnant, to come}!

through pregnancy and childbirth safely
yourself, and to have a normal baby.”
Donna’s face grew radiant.
“We can’t guarantee it, you understand,”

he cautioned. ‘“‘The mortality rate for babies }} '

of diabetic mothers is still considerably

ind

higher than for those of nondiabetics; the in-}}

cidence of malformation is also somewhat
higher. You see, pregnancy occasionally in-
terferes with the efficiency of the Insulin, in
addition to stirring up the diabetes itself. It
is harder to predict reactions to dosage. But

your type of diabetes should not be affected)

too adversely by pregnancy.”

“What are the chances that the baby
might inherit the disease?”

“There certainly seems to be a basis for
the theory that diabetes runs in families. But
babies are seldom born with diabetes, and
nowadays we have better ways of dealing
with it if it should develop. Authorities do
not advise against pregnancy for a diabetic
woman on grounds of heredity alone.” !

Donna gave a sigh of relief. “This all
sounds simply wonderful, Doctor.” bs

“There are some other things you should
know,” the doctor went on. “If you were t
become pregnant, special precautions would
have to be taken all the way through. The
diabetes would have to be controlled very
carefully and you would have to make more
frequent visits to the obstetrician than the
average expectant mother. Babies of diabetic
women tend to grow too rapidly toward the
end, get too big and heavy. It might be nec-
essary to induce the birth, or to do a Cae-
sarean in order to avoid damage to you and
the baby. Often it is considered best for
diabetic women not to breast-feed.”

“Well, anyhow, I don’t need to feel that it
might blight Hal’s life for me to marry him?”

JANUARY, 1962

“You were beautiful. Heaven is made up of
beautiful women like you. The Muslim heaven
is nicer than all the others because of that.
Nothing but a garden of beautiful women.”

“All very fine for you, but what happens to
me?” I yawned.

“You are in the garden too. And Ill be

\ there.” He pushed me back on the bed. I
curled up, ready to sleep. “Isn’t that heaven
enough?”

_ I pulled away. “Go away. I’m sleepy.”

| He kissed me. “‘Isn’t it?”

1 “Tf you think ——”

He kissed me again. ‘““Why not?”

“Perhaps. Well . . .”’ Finally I said, “Yes.”

Arriving back at the hotel at Chauen was
like returning from another world. We swam
in the hotel pool; we sat on the hotel patio
and watched an obligingly flamboyant sunset
at the cocktail hour. We ate a late supper in
the hotel dining room. I looked at the groups
of German and Scandinavian tourists around
us and almost pitied them for coming so far to
see Morocco from a hotel window. They
should have stayed at home and looked at
travel books. The exhaustion from the ride
into the mountains, the heat of the steam
bath, the tug at the heart on leaving Aisha and
Bachir, the feast and the dancing, breakfast
in a courtyard served by a little barefoot girl,

By GOODRICH C. SCHAUFFLER, M.D.

PELL
PME
DOCTOR

*“No indeed, Donna. However, whether or
not you want to incur deliberately the risks
involved in motherhood—that’s a question
you and your husband would have to settle
between yourselves.”
| It was eighteen months before the doctor
,saw Donna again. Her name was Mrs. Hal
| Mathews now, and she was pregnant. She
' told the doctor that she and her husband had
"decided to face the risks the doctor had
- described. “Though now that I’m in for it, I
. find I’m a little scared,’ she confessed.
“You haven’t any cause to be apprehen-
sive,” the doctor said, after a routine preg-
nancy check. “Your organs are in the same
excellent condition as when I examined you
_ eighteen months ago, and the simple sugar
test I made was negative. In a manner of
speaking, Dr. Beeson and I talked you into
_ this; we will work together to bring you
through it safely. He will continue to take
care of the diabetes. I imagine he’ll want to
_ put you in the hospital again for a few days
to set up proper Insulin controls.

“But there is careful work to be done by
all of us. You'll have to come in to see me
_ every two weeks—perhaps oftener at times.

We'll need to be extra careful about your
- diet, over and above the diabetic factor.
Abnormal salt and water retention is more

common in diabetic mothers, for instance,
_and toxemia is more likely to occur without
warning. You just do as Dr. Beeson and [I tell
you, though, and leave the worrying to us.”

With her obstetrician and internist work-
ing in close collaboration, Donna’s preg-

Mancy continued normally. At five months
she was put in the hospital again for routine
and special tests. They showed that all was
going well. All continued to go well until
Donna was about eight months along. On
this visit to the doctor, she reported there
had been traces of sugar in the urine tests
she herself made routinely.

“Many perfectly normal women show
traces of sugar late in pregnancy, Donna,”
the doctor said. “It’s most often due to the
early presence of lactose, the milk sugar of

breast milk, rather than to the dextrose
which is characteristic of diabetes. We'll
test, though, to be sure.”

“T feel awfully big, too, Doctor. I’ve only
gained a pound in the two weeks since I saw
you last, but my tummy seems ever so much
larger. You said the baby might start to
grow too fast.”

“Yes; there is some peculiar factor of
metabolism in the baby of a diabetic that we
don’t quite understand. That is why I men-
tioned the possibility of speeding up the
birth. Also, a diabetic mother frequently has
an excess of amniotic fluid which makes her
feel bigger. Your husband is a large man,
however. Your baby’s growth may not be
out of line. We will watch for a week or so to
see what happens.”

Suddenly Donna started showing positive
tests for sugar regularly, and the sugar was
not the harmless lactose of breast milk. She
was thirstier than usual, developed an un-
appeasable appetite and had to get up fre-
quently in the night—all signs that the dia-
betes might be getting out of control. Now
the baby was clearly growing at too rapid a
rate. Another X ray was ordered.

“You definitely should have a Caesarean,
Donna,” the doctor said. “The X ray showed
clearly that the baby is too big for the birth
canal. It also helped me determine whether
the baby is ready to be delivered—not too
premature, that is to say. We can tell some-
thing about this by certain little bones called
epiphyses, which develop, or join together
with the long bones, at a certain time. In
diabetes, a baby can be premature even
though it weighs ten or twelve pounds. But
I’m completely reassured about this one, and
the sooner it’s delivered the better. Today is
Friday. Suppose we schedule the operation
for next Tuesday. That will give Dr. Beeson
time to get the diabetes back under control.”

By Tuesday morning Donna’s blood sugar
was holding at normal as a result of an in-
crease in her Insulin dosage, and she was
taken to the operating room. To avoid de-
pressing the baby’s respiratory centers, she

this was the real country. . . . I said this to
Joseph.

He was amused, but half annoyed. “You
are wrong. Everything you saw yesterday is
old, already dated and doomed. I am the real
Morocco, half East, half West. Pulled each
way until I’m standing still.”” He looked wryly
bitter. ““The horses we rode. Do you realize
that every cent Ahmed owns is in those ani-
mals? Almost two thousand dollars. And he
plows with a stick and can’t afford fertilizer
and doesn’t even own a milk cow. And the
jewelry you wore? You looked so lovely and
happy. But I couldn’t see that gold hanging
around your neck without remembering that

had been given no preoperative sedatives or
narcotics, and the anesthesia was a low
spinal. At the very last Donna was allowed
to help by pushing, as in a normal birth.
From the other side of the drapes she heard
a gurgle, then a cough, then a lusty cry.

“Oh, Doctor,” she said in a faint voice,
“can I see my baby?”

“Tm not sure I can lift him,’ the doctor
answered jokingly. After giving the infant a
hasty face wash, he held up a husky, squall-
ing, kicking ten-pounder.

The doctor was genuinely delighted with
the baby’s condition, but knew the battle
was not won yet. Either mother or infant
might go into shock because of a deficiency
of sugar in the blood, due to the extra In-
sulin it had been necessary to give Donna
prior to delivery. The baby was immediately
placed under the care of his pediatrician,
who had witnessed the operation. Both
mother and child were watched closely for
forty-eight hours. On the third day, however,
the doctor was able to tell Hal Mathews that
there was nothing to fear.

“Donna is fine—I believe she’ll even be
able to breast-feed if she wants to. And there
isn’t the least sign of abnormality in the
baby. His pediatrician and I have made sure
of that.”

“Thank God!’’ Hal Mathews exclaimed.
“T would never have stopped blaming myself
if anything had gone wrong. But we both
wanted a child, and after what you and Dr.
Beeson told Donna ——”

“Quite right. With Donna’s excellent con-
dition initially, and the means we have today
to counteract diabetes and its effects, there
was really very little to be afraid of. Even
that flare-up at the last did no harm, Donna
was so good at reporting immediately and
following orders. She came through this so
well that Dr. Beeson and I have agreed on
something else. There is no reason why she
shouldn’t have another baby after a while—
perhaps several more!”

Next month Dr. Schauffler discusses the modern
approach to cancer.

it was the wealth of the entire village. Money
which could triple itself if it were spent on irri-
gating or planting coverage on the hills. In
five years, with that capital, Bachir could put
the whole district on its feet.”

He paused, smiled apologetically. “I’m
sorry. But it means so much to me. And the
worst of it is that I am not sure myself whether
I would choose to have six milk cows instead
of two stallions which ride like the wind. Or if
I would put ten dollars in the bank if I knew
you were doting on a new gold bracelet.”

“Oh, but I don’t want jewelry,” I said,
knowing that that was not the point.

Joseph smiled and rose to pull my chair
back. “I know, and the small chance you’ll
have of getting any, at least for the next few
years.”

We left the room arm in arm. How nice it
was to be cared for publicly like this.

“Tired?” Joseph asked.

“A bit.”

“Well, off to bed with you.”

And that was when the astonishing thing
happened. The first time it happened, I should
say.

He waited until I was in bed, kissed me good
night and turned out the light. Then he left
the room, locking the door behind him.

I was too shocked to call out when I heard
him walk away. It must have been hours later
that I fell asleep, burning with shame and
anger at having been locked in, at having been
left with no word of explanation. It was nearly
dawn when he returned; he undressed in the
dark and carefully eased into the bed beside me.

In the morning I was too proud to ask
where he had gone or why he had left. He be-
haved as if nothing had happened, and talked
only of our return to Tangier that afternoon.

That night we were home. Joseph came to
bed with me—and did not leave.

I woke up to the smell of coffee coming up
the stairwell. As Halti came in I arose, greeted
her, walked across the room to pick up the
letters that were propped against a vase. A
telegram lay on top of the stack; I opened it,
and I read that my grandfather was dead.

The housekeeper’s letter told me more. She
had been with grandpa the afternoon my cable
reached him. He had been sitting on the
porch; he took the yellow envelope and
chatted awhile with the delivery boy, before
opening it. Finally he slit it.

“She'll be telling me what time the boat
lands,’ he had said. Suddenly he reached for
the rail.

“Anything wrong, Mr. dePrey?” the boy
had asked.

“No. No, nothing wrong,” grandpa an-
swered. “In fact, Cammie’s taken a fine job.
Teaching. Can’t come back just yet. Just the
experience she needs, she says.”

“Then in a bit,”’ the letter said, ‘““he folded
up the telegram and put it in his pocket, and
up he went, to lie down, he said. The heat had
made him tired.”

She brought his supper to him. He ate a
little, then went back to sleep. The next day
his friend the judge dropped in; he agreed that
Mr. dePrey seemed ill, but not seriously enough
to call the doctor. They talked until just before
supper when the judge left. She hadn’t dis-
turbed my grandfather again. He had been
sleeping so well. It was in the morning that
she found “*. . . he had passed on in his sleep.
He was so proud of you; a shame that he
couldn’t have lived to see you come home. But
he was an old, old man; he was just too tired
to wait any longer.”

But I loved him! Why couldn’t he have
waited just another eight months? Then
Joseph and I could have gone to him together.

It was days before my eyes were dry, and
weeks before I could speak his name in a nor-
mal voice. I missed his weekly letters; I missed
being able to write to him; I did not know how
I would be able to face returning to Eduards-
ville and finding that he was not there.

The beginning of school and Joseph’s kind-
ness saved me; I clung to him as a child clings
to a parent. I let my work drown out my
private thoughts and hide my mind’s picture
of what had been and what should have been.

We lived within walking distance of the
school; this was important because we had

confided, “‘I love to be in the kitchen
at Katy’s house. Everything in it
looks like a pretty picture.”’ The next
time I visited Katy’s mother I ob-
served that kitchen. A cord of beau-
tiful wine-colored onions hung artis-
tically on a nail in the wall. A few
yellow Jemons in a pottery dish
looked like a Cézanne still life. What
did it matter that Katy’s mother’s
stove was not meticulously clean? I
couldn’t even remember the appli-
ances in my own childhood kitchen,
but I quickened with the memory of
my mother’s arranging in her best
vase the wild flowers we’d picked.
And you watched a
youngster putting flowers into a tea-
cup one by one, studying each petal,
testing the smells, the texture of the

have ever

different leaves? These are the sen-
sations and observations that enrich
a lifetime. I
all-night truck driver in France who
had a small nosegay of fresh lilies of
the valley clipped to the dashboard
of his truck!

In Edna Ferber’s So Big, Selina
made bouquets—not bunches— of
vegetables for market. Take a good
look at your vegetables! Tell your
children their cheeks are as “‘red as
these tomatoes I’m slicing’; the cu-
cumbers are as “dark green as a cool
forest’; the cabbage when washed
has dewdrops “‘like grass in the

once encountered an

moonlight”’; the potatoes’ eyes ‘‘make
them look like faces.’’ Children have

a natural the

hunger to absorb
beauty around them.

Do you shop with a list drawn by
your preschooler? A row of three
lemons or twelve oranges makes him
more aware of color and shape. Or
serve a pie that has a flower, a face or
an abstract picture pricked in the top
crust? You have to let the steam out,
anyway.

At the beach children
roaming for treasure: small shells,
smooth colored pebbles, bits of sea-
weed, gulls’ feathers. Pebbles make
beautiful

send the

eyes; sea exotic

straws,

tails. You can mix equal portions of

plaster of Parisandsea water,

pour into a sand mold you
have dug and decorated,
strengthen with chicken
wire, and in half an hour

have a remarkable work
of art.

There is hardly any-
thing in everyday
living that cannot

excite the imagina-

tion of children who not

} only quickly pick up ideas

+“ but enlarge upon them. One

rainy afternoon I was sewing
buttons on a coat. To keep my six-
year-old still, I laid a sheet of paper
over a button and rubbed the design
with a pencil. Within minutes she
was foraging in my button box for
different shapes and sizes. The next
day she and a friend made rubbings
of leaves and flower petals. After
that, I found clusters of children on
my front porch absorbed in the
wonders of Nature patterns. Most of
the results were charming enough to
frame or use for Christmas cards.
These days most birthday cakes
come from the bakery, wistfully com-
plained a friend whose mother used
to make plain round cakes and pick
remembers as the most
beautiful rose in the world to put in
the middle. My own children help

what she

bake theirs and choose the frosting
color. ““Remember the year Margaret
wanted they remember
gleefully. This year I’m planning to

purple?”

let each child at the party decorate a
birthday cupcake. The invitations
themselves can challenge your child’s
ingenuity if you provide a 29-cent
package of construction paper.

To most children, snowmen are
conventional. My children’s are al-
ways delightfully bizarre personali-
ties with wigs of old mops of yellow
wool, aprons and kerchiefs made of
old rags, eyes of gleaming glass beads
shaded, perhaps, with a discarded veil.

We have found that a large kitchen
bulletin board adds to creativity;
that more poems are written and
more pictures painted, especially for
our always-homemade birthday
cards and valentines.

Too often a bored child grows up
to be a bored adult. But a child with
an eye for beauty and creative imag-
ination is seldom bored in his life-
time. You won’t turn every child into
an artist, but a bit of homespun
pleasure will add an important di-
mension to his life, while a bit of
beauty in his surroundings will con-
tribute an all-important sense of well-
being. Hang onions in your kitchen!

very little money. Had Halti demanded a
salary, we never could have paid her. She
lived with us, of course; she cooked, and
cleaned, and washed, and ironed, and, most
important, she shopped. Our food bill would
have been double had she not braved the mar-
kets each day to haggle over every egg, to
squeeze each head of lettuce, to demand that
bone be trimmed before the meat was weighed.

I went shopping with Halti often at first. I
felt it my duty to learn the cost of food. The
old French centime still counted in the mar-
ket; prices were quoted in terms of the Arab
real, extinct for a hundred years; and Spanish,
English and American silver was accepted—
with a polite bite to test its verity. I needed
paper and pencil to make the conversions
which Halti seemed to carry, like a multiplica-
tion table, in her head. My visits to the market
therefore became a luxury, and I merely stood
and watched while Halti handled the practical
transactions.

Joseph, though. loved to hear me tell of our
expeditions. He was busy with his writing and
his classes at the school and his private les-
sons each afternoon. But at dinner, our time to
talk, he would ply me with questions about
where I had been, whom I had seen, what I had
thought. Everything I said seemed to amuse
him.

“Because I have never noticed these things,”
he explained one night. “I have been living too
close to them. Go on; what else happened to-
day?”

“Let me see. First Halti took me to the
meat market. The butcher asked me what I
wanted, and I pointed, and he cut. Very sim-
ple. Saddle of lamb. That’s what we’ll have
tomorrow.”

mines

“And mint sauce. Halti
make it.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me.”

“Show me how to say ‘mint sauce’ with
your hands.”

I started to gesture, then saw that he was
teasing and pretended to hit at him, reaching
across the table. He caught my hand as though
to slap it, then stopped suddenly and kissed
it... . LT realized that I had smiled, even
laughed, for the first time since I had read the
telegram. Joseph had had a week of living with
my tears and my remorse. How patient he and
the others had been with me!

“Joseph,” I said, “I love you very much.”

“Ah?” he answered, as if considering the
thought. ““And what else is new?”

I laughed again, and the tightness in my
heart loosened. “Let me think. Oh, 1 know, I
discovered something. The butcher took his
turban off while I was there. It was a white
one, wound tightly, like a soldier’s. He just
took it off and put it back on again like a hat.
I had always thought turbans had to be re-
wound each time.”

Joseph was almost too amused by the story.
He passed it on to Halti. How easy it was to
please them! I made another effort.

““Maybe Halti could teach me the mint-
sauce recipe tomorrow. Ask her.”

“No, you. Go ahead.”

I looked at Halti helplessly. There was mint
in the kitchen. I went to get it, and using it I
asked her in pantomime to show me how to
make a sauce. She nodded, disappeared, and
in a few minutes reappeared triumphant with
a tray of mint tea. Joseph explained the mis-
take, translated for me, and the three of us sat
at the table sipping tea, laughing.

knows how to

Tie first grade! There is nothing more
wonderful. When the class is small and many-
colored, and speaks in accented lisps. it can
give the teacher who looks down on it that
first terrifying day a feeling of immense and
frightening power, that she, through these,
can reach the entire world. And the tender-«
ness that fills her in that second when the door
of the classroom first closes! Her charges turn
instinctively to where she stands and raise
their eyes to meet hers, waiting, full of confi-
dence that what she will give them will be the
truth. Who could not feel despair, then hu-
mility and love at such a moment?
I had seventeen pupils from ten countries.

They ranged from a Finnish boy so pale his
skin seemed transparent to a husky Ghanese,

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

purebred and black as the Finn was white.
These two happened to be the tallest in the
class, and so side by side brought up the rear
of the little procession the pupils formed
when they marched out to the play yard.

Roy visited my class often at first. The
school did not have the money to buy the
training aids, such as movie projectors, pho-
nographs, tape recorders that I was used to
using in America. But I had visited little
Laweel’s father, who owned a shop full of im-
ported electrical items, and had managed to
borrow a phonograph from him. Each day,
for an hour, I played records borrowed
from the American library. Thus the class
learned all the children’s songs and poems
that we in America learn at home.

“Ring around a rosy ——”

“What is posy, M’z Krim?”

“Did London Bridge really fall down?”

“My father went to London once.”

“Where is Babylon?”

“Did Tommy Tucker sing because he had no
eyes, like the beggar in front of the mosque?”’

I encouraged the questions. It was the only
hour when there was time for conversation.

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Roy discovered me at this one day and
seemed annoyed. When the class filed out to
the playground I asked him what he thought
of the records.

“They are for younger children, aren’t
they? Nursery school, Cammie. We always
read stories to the first-graders at this hour.”
He drawled out the last word unconsciously,
making it into “‘awah.”

I laughed. “‘Listen to your Mississippi ac-
cent, Roy. It’s worse than mine. If I read to
them all the time they will be able to under-
stand only Southerners. These records will
help them to recognize New York, or Cali-
fornia, or even London accents.”

He was taken aback; I don’t know whether
by the contradiction, or by the thought that
he still had such a marked accent. I wanted to
assuage him.

“The library has some Shakespeare and
some Robert Frost readings, but I thought
they were too advanced. So I use these baby
records and get lots of conversation in be-
tween. You should have heard Zora today.
She said, ‘How pretty!’ It is the first time she
has ever said a word in class. Everyone was so
surprised we all just looked at her. The poor
child blushed purple. But later on she said it
again. That is real progress.

“The parents ought to help more, don’t you
think? Laweel’s father was actually glad to
lend the phonograph. He told me he used to
play soccer in India. Why couldn’t he help
Mr. Roberts with the football team? And
Mrs. McCarthy? Her little girl is just the age
to be a Brownie. She ought to be working with
Miss Chapin and the Scouts.”

etme

yi
HN

ANUARY, 1962

Roy sat down heavily on one of the low
asks. “You're right, Cammie. We ought to
= reaching the parents somehow. And the
ids do need a chance to practice their Eng-
sh. So few of them say a word of English
utside of class, even in the upper grades.”
e sighed and passed the back of his hand
ver his forehead.

“What is the matter, Roy?”

“Tired, I suppose. And I ought to be telling
du not to go off on your own to beg phono-
raphs. Laweel’s father is the richest Indian in
angier. He can afford to give us twenty pho-
ographs, not just one for the class his own
arling is in. But at least you got that. I can’t
2lp being glad.”

He did look tired. “I’ve had trouble with
ye teachers this year, too; first not having
hough of them, and now the two fellowship
tachers want an extra week so that they can
isit Palestine. 1 am supposed to make the rest
fyou take their classes. Then Mrs. Guederro,
‘om Seville, took it personally when we had
) drop the Spanish classes. She complained
) her ambassador. And the three French
sachers have asked for raises. And now here
ou are, full of enthusiasm and ideas. I’m
rateful, that’s all. 've had too much ——”

e looked at me oddly.

I suddenly realized how often he had been
‘coming to my class, yet how seldom Joseph
nd I had seen him together. Both of them
rofessed to be best friends, yet Roy was
trangely formal with me on the few occasions
ye met socially. Now, earnest, worried, with a
ertain tenderness as he watched me, he
doked, I thought, like—and the truth dawned
‘n me—like a man falling in love. But surely
jot with me? The silence in the classroom had
ysecome suddenly embarrassing.

_ Istarted to tack a huge picture of a clock to
he wall. ““We learn to tell time next,’’ I said.
‘Laweel’s father gave me a whole roll of wrap-
‘ing paper. Enough for posters like this for the
year.”

“Cammie, how do you do it? That man is
nore Scotch than McGregor. I’ve been at him
or money for years.”

“But he doesn’t want to give money. He
ants to give his heart. Or maybe he just
xeeds to be approached by a woman. I don’t
snow. I just told him what I needed—and he
ave it.”

Roy frowned apprehensively. ‘*What else?”
pe asked.
| “A projector. A loan anyway.” I couldn’t
nide my pleasure. ‘‘Mr. Jee says the projector
ind phonograph come from his stock. He’ll
ry to sell them as secondhand next year. So
ve must take care of them; he asked that no
yne but me touch them.”

Roy, instead of being angry, laughed. “It’s
he blond hair.”’ He straightened his jacket on

oe -£
«LUve. Love one another. Didn't C hrist say
mat?” age

“The Sermon on the Mount.” But I was not
really sure. He saw it.

“You see. You should be reading the Bible,
not the Koran. And if you had read closely,
you would have seen that the Prophet told us
that only Allah can see into a man’s heart.
And that we should give every man, even a
Christian, the benefit of the doubt.” He was
half teasing me. “Now, make me a promise.”

“Anything,” I answered.

“Promise to love me.”

I was almost glad to have quarreled, the
making up was so lovely, But later, when I was
alone, the doubts returned. If Joseph was a
good Muslim, he surely believed in a heaven
which excluded me, a mere woman. I could
hardly bear the thought: not of the male
heaven, but the fact that Joseph might be-
lieve in it.

Then came Ramadan. I knew what to ex-
pect; Joseph had told me. For one month all
Muslims—and in North Africa that meant
€very-native citizen—ate only at night. During
the daylight hours a Muslim touched neither
food nor drink. He did not smoke: he did not
embrace his wife; he did not have lustful

his shoulders and unfolded his incongruous
big form from his perch on the low desk.

“It wasn’t the hair at all, Roy, Iam sure. I
mean... you must give other people credit for
having as much heart as you do.”

Lady Mills’s voice interrupted. ‘‘That is ex-
actly what I tell him, Cammie. Half the liter-
ates in this town would give their time to the
school if he would only let them. But all he
asks is money. Not that he doesn’t need it.
Sign this.” She thrust a pen in his hand and a
paper on the desk. He read it, signed it quickly,
and started to pocket the pen.

“You see,”’ she went on, taking the pen from
him but still addressing me, “‘absentminded
from the word go. I’ve been trying to get him
to marry for years, but he keeps looking for
someone as crazy about schools and education
as he is himself.”

Roy put his hand up in the air as though to
ward off Lady Mills’s blow and left the room
with a duck of his head. She had been joking,
but I saw that he was as embarrassed as I.

Lady Mills raised one eyebrow in my direc-
tion. Her eyebrows could say anything. Well ?
the arch seemed to ask.

“You're right,” I finally agreed. ‘He is so
lonely it hurts to see him.”

But her answer was a snort. “He has his
work. Don’t feel sorry for him. I’ve been want-
ing to ask you; have you time to shop with
Sara this afternoon? She asked me where to
buy shoes. I know several shops, but I really
think it would be better if someone younger
went with her. To get her out of those oxford
things she always wears.”

“Yes, of course. I'll go with her.” I laughed,
and she laughed with me, both of us knowing
exactly what the other was thinking. “I sup-
pose you have the date set already?”

“No, not yet. But it will happen. Love is so
rare; you have no idea. Oh, yes, you and Jo-
seph are in love. I was in love. But for most
people it is usually propinquity. A secretary
and her boss—that sort of thing. Take Roy;
he is so buried in his work he is attracted by
the first bright face that flashes into his little
world. He’s at that stage.”

“But of course with Roy it is different. The
woman will have to offer some . . . hope.”

“Yes, and may it be the right woman who
takes that first step.”

In spite of myself I was the one who made a
move. It happened just a week later. Roy’s
visits to my class had stopped. Joseph had
asked him to visit us on a Saturday afternoon,
chiding him for leaving us so much alone.
Roy promised to come. But that morning,
while Halti was shopping and Joseph was giv-
ing a lesson up on the Old Mountain, the
doorbell rang. I opened the door, and there
stood a girl robed in white. She drew back, as
though startled, when I asked, “Yes?”

“Work?” she said.

xy. iso Lapin would smile, too, at
come very near a blush, for she did not wai
the rest of us to think she planned to entra
Roy with her cooking. We did not; she we
too honest and too simple a person to desig
no matter what her dreams.

One day she asked me, ““What do you thin
people would say if I invited Roy to dinner?

“What people are you talking about?
I asked.

“Oh, you know. Louise, Mary. The rest.
She mentioned the other single teachers.

“Why should they know?”

“Oh”’—she was shocked—‘“‘there would b
nothing secret about it. 1 mean, I want youan
Joseph to come, too, and I was going to as!
Lady Mills. In fact, she was the one who sug
gested it.”

I couldn’t help laughing. Lady Mills wa
matchmaking again. Sara’s only vanity was h¢
cooking or else she would have seen throu
the pretense.

Joseph accepted the invitation; I asked Sa
to make the party late so his fasting would n
upset the others too much. She invited us
therefore, for “just after sundown.” |

When we arrived at her apartment, I wa
surprised to find the Ilsens there. Sara met u
in the hall and told us she had invited ther
impulsively at the last minute. Joseph’s ex
pression hardened.

It was not unusual for a Moroccan girl to
come asking for housework. But there was
much that was different about this girl. Her
djellaba was ironed; servants cannot often
afford to iron their own clothes, and the aver-
age housemaid wears a robe, not an expensive
djellaba. Her hands were hennaed; her brace-
lets were gold rather than silver. I told her I
had a maid; she did not seem disappointed,
merely asked for a glass of water. I brought
her into the kitchen with me, and sat with her
while she sipped at the water. She seemed
more curious than thirsty. She eyed me over
the rim of the glass, returning my stare
frankly. For I was staring; she was very beau-
tiful. Except for a large tattoo on her forehead,
she would have been called lovely in any lan-
guage. Neither of us said anything. After she
left, I never would have thought of her again,
had Joseph not seemed depressed at lunch-
time. I tried to distract him, and told him
about the girl.

“So pretty, darling, you should have seen
her. But her tattoo was the largest I've ever
seen. From her hairline right down to her
nose. Crisscrosses and circles, in the form of a
diamond. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

Joseph looked like thunder. He threw down
his napkin and started up from his chair.
“Halti!” he shouted.

The old woman came running in. I had
never heard Joseph speak so angrily to her.
All I could understand was her answer.

“No, Sidi, no, no, no, sir,’ she kept saying.
He finally rushed out, slamming the door
behind him. I raced to the hall just in time to
see the elevator doors sliding closed. No use to
run downstairs. I turned back into the apart-
ment. No use, either, to query Halti. I won-
dered suddenly if the girl had something to do
with Joseph’s nocturnal excursions.

I must have left the door open, for Roy
walked in without my hearing him.

“Where is Joseph going? I saw him disap-
pear around the corner like Alice’s rabbit. . . .
What’s this?’ He saw that I was crying.

I turned to him, and burst out all that I was
feeling. “Oh, Roy, ve no idea where Joseph
has gone. I never do. I was talking about some
girl who came this morning, and all of a sud-
den he ran out; and he goes like that without
saying a word to me, nearly every night, and
now ——”

My voice was muffled, for Roy had put his
arm around me and my face was buried in his
lapel. He was patting my head, saying over
and over, “Poor baby, my poor baby.” And
then when I looked up he kissed me, clumsily,
on the forehead.

I stepped back and saw that he in his inno-
cence was astonished at what he had done.
Not I. It was no more than I should have ex-
pected. I was angry at myself, and ashamed.

As I turned away from Roy, I saw Halti
watching us from the kitchen door.

Roy asked for coffee. It was just the thing
to do. We sat down at the table, trying to let
silence smooth the edges of the thing which
had torn the day.

“Joseph asked me up, you know,” Roy
volunteered hesitantly. “I haven’t called or
stopped because I knew you were getting set-
tled, and then because of *” He wanted to
mention my grandfather’s death, but we both
knew there was more reason than that for his
holding aloof.

“I know,” I answered.

Loyalty was only one of Roy’s virtues.

‘’m sorry—well, I’m sorry I embarrassed

you just now.” He was uneasy, and finally
rose to go. “Cammie, Joseph is my best friend
here; but if you ever need anything, you can
call on me too.”

I could see that it had been an effort for him
to say this. I tried not to read more into his
words than lay on the surface. ““You’re aw-
fully kind. Roy. Pll tell Joseph you came.”

“Yes, do.”’ He smiled, and left with a wave
of the hand.

When Joseph returned I had finished my
work and was sitting on the terrace drying my
hair.

He saw me through the French doors and
called happily, “I brought you a present.’ He
leaned over to kiss me.

I forgot to be angry. “A present!” He had
dropped a package in my lap. I tore the paper

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off and found a dollar-size charm, a gold hand
set with a crude diamond in the palm. I held it
up to the light in wonder.

‘Joseph! Where did you get it?”

“It isn’t from me. It’s from my mother. She
wants you to come see her.”
‘Have you been with your mother?” Re-

membering, I refound my anger.

“Yes; where did you think I’d been?”
seemed astonished.

“But we had been talking about that girl
when you rushed out.”

“Of course. I thought it had been mother
who had sent her to find out something about
you. She is someone mother knows—I recog-
nized your description of the tattoo. But
mother swears she hasn’t seen the girl in
months. I can’t believe her. But the upshot is:
my father has gone away for a week; you're
summoned to meet my mother in her rooms
in the harem.”

“But why did the girl come?” I asked.

“Who knows? Ask her. Come on! Alley-
oop! Get ready!”

“You mean we're going now? Right away?”

“Of course.”

“But Joseph, I want to talk to you.”

“No time. Later. Mother’s waiting.”

“And besides, look.” I gestured toward my
hair. Couldn’t he see I was angry?

No. He grinned and felt the back of my
head. “Dry as a bone. Tie it back. Come on,
twist it up and let’s go.”

Joseph chose a dress for me to wear, a dark,
full-skirted one. I found a chain for the gift
and fastened it around my neck.

‘Joseph, do I really look all right?”

“Of course, darling.’’ He pulled me to him,
held me for a moment. “You hardly remember
your mother, my pet. You'll be a daughter
now to mine. You'll see.”

“T hope.”’ I squeezed his hand reassuringly.

I had never been in a Moroccan home in
Tangier before. All I knew of the old Arab
way of life was what I had seen in the moun-
tains. Suddenly, as I stepped over the doorsill
and into the garden, I knew that I was step-
ping into another century. The old servant
who had opened the door for us kissed Jo-
seph’s hand and motioned us forward. The
door creaked shut. The street noises were
closed out, and all we could hear now were the
sound of running water, a rustle of birds, and
then the click of my high heels as we skirted a
tiled fountain and walked under the trees of
the first courtyard to an archway which
opened onto a smaller, but lovelier, patio. This
was the garden of the harem.

At least six women were in the courtyard,
some sitting by the pool, others in the shelter
of their porticoes. Joseph greeted them all by
name and kissed the hands of two of them.
These, he told me later, were his father’s first
wives. Others had died, some had been di-
vorced. He did not really know how many
there had been in all.

Only Joseph’s mother had had the interest
and the ability to wangle permission to go
out, carefully escorted, on rare excursions
through the Medina. This had been no doubt
because of Joseph. The old man, having re-
fused Joseph access to the harem, did not have
the heart to forbid the mother to go see the
son. But even Fatima had been afraid to go
beyond the walls of the Medina. So after we
were married, Joseph bribed the doorkeeper
of the harem to let him in to see Fatima. I
could see that all the women in the courtyard
were pleased with his deceit. It seemed to be
part of a game, and I bowed and smiled as
they clustered around us

| an took my hand and led me to his
mother’s room. My first reaction was one of
shock, that one so young could have a thirty-
year-old son. Then, too, the woman sitting
on the couch in the dim room was grotesquely
fat. Joseph had not warned me. It was the
fat which made her seem so young. It would
have been impossible to find a wrinkle or a
mark of age on that round white face. She
sat staring at the entrance expectantly, her
eyes blue and innocent and ignorant as a
child’s. Could this be Joseph’s mother? Only
her coloring proved it. Her white skin. the
black, slightly wavy hair, the blue eyes were his,
and I caught his same expression of kindness

and good will when she patted the couch next
to her, motioning me to sit.
“Good morning, sir,” she said haltingly in

English.

“Good morning, ma’am,” I answered sol-
emnly.

This, then, was the lithe young girl from

the mountains whom Joseph had talked of.
Thirty-one years since she entered this house
and its gardens. Her skin had been touched
only by what sun filtered through the trees in
the patio; her mind had never been reached.
What else for her to do besides eat and gossip
and play with jewels? I was touched by pity for
her, and moved to think that she tried to greet
me in my native tongue. She used the words
and the accent which the long-ago British
consul must have taught her father.

“Thank you,” I said in Arabic, indicating
the charm. “‘It is beautiful.”

She nodded in approval. Did she think I
was a poor match for her Joseph? She took
in my figure, so un-Arabic with its lack of
flesh, so American and lanky. Her own moun-
tainous, moonlike body was what the men in
her world desired. I lowered my eyes and
played with my ring nervously. Catching my
motion, she took my hand, examined the ring,
then showed me her own fingers heavy with
jewels. She pulled Joseph’s hand close to mine
and saw that our rings were identical.

“She wants you to see that she has no wed-
ding band. This exchange of rings at a wedding
is anew custom to us. People my mother’s age
never did it.’’ Joseph slipped his ring off his
hand and handed it to his mother for a closer
inspection. She puzzled over the initials on the
inside.

I read them to her and, motioning, indi-
cated that the engraving gave our names. She
looked at me in admiration as I spelled out
the letters for her.

SMALL

Eel irae

DECORATING

Pictures are not the only way to dress} teacher who looks down on it that

a wall. See how a collection of pretty

ceramics brightens this one. Plates ar

on special metal hangers from a hardw
store; a jug and a vase are perched ONfassroom first closes! Her charges turn
brackets that have been enameled to i

the ceramics’ glossy look; and a Delft
poc ket”

are antique, except for a modern Spoc

for color accent centered in the botto
row. Note how ple rasantly the roundec
contrast with the paper’s flocked strip

bared on a hook. All the piec4

Tea was brought to us. Joseph sat silent,
watching us with pleasure. His mother was
clearly satisfied with me; I was the first woman
in her family who could read. No female of
her generation had been to school; even Jo-
seph’s half sisters, much older than he, had
not learned to write more than their own
names or to read more than a few verses of
the Koran.

As we rose to leave I stooped impulsively
and kissed her on each side of her round
smooth face. She reached up and took my
head between her hands and returned the
caress. I knew she was happy. She tried to rise
to see us to the door, but the effort was too
great. We urged her to stay seated, promised
to visit whenever we could, and left hastily.

What should I have said to Joseph about
his mother? After all he had told me, I had ex-
pected a quick mind and an aristocratic
beauty. The obscenely fat woman with the
blank expression was almost a caricature. So,
when Joseph turned to me expectantly, waiting
for a comment, all I would say was, ‘“‘Joseph,
she is very striking. Most beautiful skin I have
ever seen. But I wonder . . . I wonder if she
doesn’t have thyroid trouble? I’m sure that
much weight is bad for her heart.”

“Thyroid?” He considered the question.
“Yes, Tl talk to her about it. She wants to
learn English. She asked me if you could teach
her?

“Of course! But what would your father
say?”

“He need never know. There is a back en-
trance to the harem, guarded, but a woman
can enter. I’Il show you.”

That was the moment the plotting began.
Had I thought that Arab women were simple?
The most complex lies were invented ; the most
devious ways of reaching the house were
found; before a month was out the entire crest

By H. T. Williams

fem! I made ancihed effort.
be Halti could teach me the mint-
cipe tomorrow. Ask her.”
you. Go ahead.”
ed at Halti helplessly. There was mint
itchen. I went to get it, and using it I
er in pantomime to show me how to
sauce. She nodded, disappeared, and
y minutes reappeared triumphant with
f mint tea. Joseph explained the mis-
anslated for me, and the three of us sat
ble sipping tea, laughing.

rst grade! There is nothing more
ul. When the class is small and many-
and speaks in accented lisps. it can

ifying day a feeling of immense and
ng power, that she, through these,
h the entire world. And the tender-+
fills her in that second when the door

ely to where she stands and raise
Ps to meet hers, waiting, full of confi-
at what she will give them will be the
ho could not feel despair, then hu-
| d love at such a moment?

T/ seventeen pupils from ten countries.
{nged from a Finnish boy so pale his
ned transparent to a husky Ghanese,

He drawl
making it into *

I laughed. “Listen to your Mississippi ac-
cent, Roy. It’s worse than mine. If I read to
them all the time they will be able to under-
stand only Southerners. These records will
help them to recognize New York, or Cali-
fornia, or even London accents.”

He was taken aback; I don’t know whether
by the contradiction, or by the thought that
he still had such a marked accent. I wanted to
assuage him.

“The library has some Shakespeare and
some Robert Frost readings, but I thought
they were too advanced. So I use these baby
records and get lots of conversation in be-
tween. You should have heard Zora today.
She said, ‘How pretty!” It is the first time she
has ever said a word in class. Everyone was so
surprised we all just looked at her. The poor
child blushed purple. But later on she said it
again. That is real progress.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

of the Medina was in on the secret: Lalla}
Fatima, the youngest wife of Sidi bel Krim
was learning to read.
Later, when I began reading stories from Af®
Thousand and One Nights, 1 discovered thate!
such intrigues hatched in the harems were aff!
classic form of fun for the imprisoned women}
In Fatima’s case the plot was an innocent one
I did not doubt her sincerity in wanting tcf
learn to read. The other women crowded inte}:
the room whenever I was there, and listened top"
all I said, but they threw up their hands in dis
may if I asked them a question or offered to lei}
them try to write.
Fatima put her whole being into thes¢
sessions; she gripped her pencil like a lifeline”
and bore down so heavily that she often toré¢
‘he paper; when we finished she would be
glistening with perspiration and would le,
back sighing with exhaustion. She was keeng
than I had thought at first. Before Christm&4
she was greeting me in English, asking basi
questions, and understanding my answers.

il was in Joseph’s workroom one day, search’
ing for a book for Fatima, when I chanced o1f*
a letter stuck between two pages of a diction #®
ary. It was an offer made to Joseph of a jolf”
with the Ministry of Education in Rabat. I re}
membered what Phyllis had said about him
that he had turned down positions which
others would have jumped at. The salary me
tioned in the letter was twice what he earne¢
now. I looked at the date on the letter; he ha¢
received it since we had been married, yet h¥
had never mentioned it to me. Nor, from thip™
way it was carelessly left in the book, had h ;
even bothered to answer it. I felt vaguely a
noyed. I had wanted to continue to teach, #™
agreed that his book was important, but why!
could he not talk about any new offer wit?
me? Because I was slightly ashamed to hav‘
read his letter, I said nothing. Later, when af
my unspoken resentments burst out, this to!
poured forth like poison.

The climax finally came. I was walkin
through an unfamiliar part of the Medina onf
day on the way to see Fatima. I understoo}™
much of what was being said around me bf
then. Suddenly, with a shock, I caught a cor!
versation between two men.

“There goes a Christian woman.” It wa
small talk, but the tone was contemptuous, <
if from habit.

“Yes, a female dog.’ The answer, too, we Ins
automatic. I would not have turned aroun! vi)
had I not felt a splattering at my feet. I whirle}’™
and saw the two blacksmiths who had spokeif *
One of them was wiping his mouth with th}
back of his hand, for it was he who had spit jj
my path. I bit my lip and hated the tears ¢
helpless fury which came to my eyes; finally jf"
sputtered out the oath which I had heard Half
use when something went wrong around thy»
house. I had no idea what it meant; it could nqP**
be too strong for what I felt. “Ehya, w

The smiths stared stupidly, astonished, the
jurogd, grinning in embarrassment, to the is} !

ed Oul MME fase Wosrouy they had not meal} |

| il

‘awah.” onl

ANUARY, 1962

ristled when I found the injunctions which
orted the pious Muslims to curse the Chris-
ans. “And look at what Paradise is! What is
man offered as a reward for killing Christians
nd praying five times a day?” I answered my
wn question scornfully, “You told me your-
2lf. When a good Muslim dies, he goes to a
arden full of dancing girls. Maybe he doesn’t
en wait to die. Come to think of it, where do
ou go at night, when you think I’m asleep?
hat girl who came—has she anything to do
ith your roaming? I’ve got to know.”

“Be quiet!” he roared. “‘I’ll tell you what I
vant to tell you. I’m your husband.”

I laughed bitterly, sarcastically. “Yes, but
m the one who buys the bread and pays the
ent!”’

He flinched visibly, and I saw how deep my

t had been. “I thought you wanted to
ork—that you felt my book ——”

“T did want to work—but why didn’t you
211 me about that offer in Rabat? The hours
te the same; the pay is better.”
| He darkened again. “Because I can’t write
mywhere but here, in Tangier. And because
is is my home; I keep up with my old
jends, men I’ve known for twenty years.”

) “Who are these friends?”
| “Some don’t speak anything but Arabic.
Mthers wouldn’t fit here’’—he gestured at our
hving room—“any more than you would fit
ere.” He pointed vaguely toward the Casbah.
4 I seized his words. “You see, I’m a woman,
ind I’m an infidel, so you can’t even let me
#neet your friends. And that girl... .There’s a
}orality for everyone—except a Muslim man.”
“What does morality mean to you? Do you
shink you can know all about Islam just by
jkimming one book? Do you think I married
put of my religion without a thought? Do you
think I chose you because you could support
ine, or because you are Christian, or Cau-
jasian, or intelligent, or what-have-you? Nota
Wit of it. I chose you because, heaven help me,
fell in love with you. You were sweet—oh,
4iOW Sweet you were—and I was in great need
yf that.”’ He passed his hands over his face and
jhrough his hair. ““Cammie, trust me. We
Jaustn’t hurt each other. Don’t mock my re-
)gion. I am not sure—I am not really sure of
nything except that I love you and I’ve been
yappy with you.”
4 What comfort there was in his arms! I
)nally forced out the words I knew I must say.
/I’'m sorry, Joseph. I said some awful things.
jDnly ... to be spit at. . . you can’t imagine.”
4, pressed my face against his shirt.
| He tipped my chin, begging for peace.
4 Smile, eh?”

{L smiled and tried to pull away. He would

ot let me. I was glad, for it meant that he had
orgiven me. How could I not believe in him

4nd love him; and loving him, how could I

Have said such cruel things? Now I asked ab-

ptly, as if to amend everything with one

jjuestion, ‘How is the book going?”

¢ | You're changing the sybject.”

+ “What was the subject?”

4 “Love. Love one another. Didn’t Christ say
ha "2°? es

“The Sermon on the Mount.” But I was not
eally sure. He saw it.

“You see. You should be reading the Bible,
ot the Koran. And if you had read closely,
ou would have seen that the Prophet told us
hat only Allah can see into a man’s heart.
nd that we should give every man, even a

hristian, the benefit of the doubt.” He was

teasing me. “Now, make me a promise.”

“Anything,” I answered.

“Promise to love me.”

I was almost glad to have quarreled, the
naking up was so lovely. But later, when I was
lone, the doubts returned. If Joseph was a
od Muslim, he surely believed in a heaven
hich excluded me, a mere woman. I could
ardly bear the thought: not of the male
eaven, but the fact that Joseph might be-
eve in it.

Then came Ramadan. I knew what to ex-
yect; Joseph had told me. For one month all
lims—and in North Africa that meant
native citizen—ate only at night. During

he daylight hoursya Muslim touched neither
ood nor drink. He did not smoke; he did not
brace his wife; he did not have lustful

thoughts. But when the sun went down he
could break his fast and abstinence. Ramadan
was a serious, nationwide flagellation which
lasted for twenty-eight days.

Halti and Joseph fasted, of course. So did
I—for one day, to see what it was like. I be-
came faint before noon; by four, when I dis-
missed my class, I was thick-lipped and mud-
dleheaded. It was the first day of the fast; I
waited, as numbly as Joseph and Halti, for the
sound of the cannon to announce that the
holy men in the mosque could not tell a black
thread from a white one.

But even so, when the signal came, I found I
could not eat. I rinsed my mouth with water as
the others did; I swallowed a bit. I let Halti fill
my bowl with the traditional Aaria, the thick
soup which is the breakfast in the Arab world.
I had enjoyed it before; now I gulped it, find-
ing it difficult to swallow.

That night I went to bed still hungry. Halti
and Joseph offered to call me at three in the
morning to join them at the regular meal of
Ramadan, when the meat and vegetables were
served. I could not face it. As in Spain, where a
year had not accustomed me to the late dinner
hours and the long siestas, I found it impossi-
ble to adjust to the idea of rising in the middle
of the night to a heavy meal of mutton stew. I
saw that I at any rate could not work normally
without eating, so I felt it the greater virtue on
my part to carry on as usual.

So our life changed. I rose each morning to
fix my coffee and toast in the midst of the

America has need of thousands of
leaders who will never be elected
President or even a governor of a
state or president of a professional
society, but who, quietly and with-
out ostentation, nevertheless will
exert true leadership in their sev-
eral walks of life.

DR. HAROLD DODDS

debris of the three A.M. dinner. I packed my
lunch and ate at noon at the school in the
teachers’ room.

Sara Chapin had taken an apartment, but
she stayed at school during the lunch hours. So
we sat together with one or two of the other
teachers, and gossiped and surreptitiously
compared sandwiches. Sara had the habit of
baking on Sundays and supplying the lunch-
room on Mondays with samples of cheesecake
or cookies, or even gingerbread which she
made with molasses sent by her sister in Ohio.
Roy soon found that Monday was a good day
to eat at the school. It became a joke to the rest
of us to watch how surprised he seemed when
Sara opened her basket of American goodies
and passed them around to us.

“Mighty fine, Miss Chapin, mighty fine,” he
would say. Miss Chapin would smile, too, and
come very near a blush, for she did not want
the rest of us to think she planned to entrap
Roy with her cooking. We did not; she was
too honest and too simple a person to design,
no matter what her dreams.

One day she asked me, “What do you think
people would say if I invited Roy to dinner?”

“What people are you talking about?”
I asked.

“Oh, you know. Louise, Mary. The rest.”
She mentioned the other single teachers.

“Why should they know?”

““Oh’’—she was shocked—*‘there would be
nothing secret about it. | mean, I want you and
Joseph to come, too, and I was going to ask
Lady Mills. In fact, she was the one who sug-
gested it.”

I couldn’t help laughing. Lady Mills was
matchmaking again. Sara’s only vanity was her
cooking or else she would have seen through
the pretense.

Joseph accepted the invitation; I asked Sara
to make the party late so his fasting would not
upset the others too much. She invited us,
therefore, for “just after sundown.”

When we arrived at her apartment, I was
surprised to find the Ilsens there. Sara met us
in the hall and told us she had invited them
impulsively at the last minute. Joseph’s ex-
pression hardened.

“After all, they were so nice to us when we
first arrived,” Sara explained.

Cocktails had already been passed. I ac-
cepted a sweet vermouth. Sara stood in front
of Joseph, realizing suddenly that he did not
drink. She spread her hands in a helpless little
gesture. ““What can I give you, Joseph? I have
Coke.”

I caught Phyllis looking pleased. I wanted to
shout at Sara, tell her to stop, not to make an
issue of it.

But she went on, “Or some of that Arab—I
mean Moroccan—orangeade. I keep it for
Pepita.”

Couldn’t she say anything right?

Roy rose. “I'll take over the drinks, Miss
Chapin. I know just what Joseph likes.”

1
Se looked up at him gratefully. Joseph
smiled benignly at Sara. Karl leaned back in
his chair and addressed Joseph. ‘“‘Lady Mills
tells us you are hoping to finish your book this
spring. Have you found a publisher?”

Joseph looked at Karl suspiciously. But as-
suring himself the older man’s interest was
genuine, he gave the answer openly: “Yes, a
textbook publisher in London has given me a
contract.

“You see, I’ve tried to approach the theme
in a way which will make interesting reading,
as well as an accurate reference for anyone
wanting to know the history of North Africa.
Algeria is pretty well covered by the French,
but there is surprisingly little about Morocco.
The twelfth and thirteenth centuries produced
more books about this area than the past seven
hundred years together. I actually found a
book out in Gharbiya ——”

Lady Mills interrupted with an exclamation.
“You have been in Gharbiya?”

“Yes, before its independence. I spent three
months there. I had met Si Hassan in Paris.”

Even Karl raised his eyebrows at the men-
tion of this name. Si Hassan had been in the
headlines all month. He was the George Wash-
ington of Gharbiya, one of Africa’s newest
countries. Since coming to power he had made
all the usual declarations that elected Muslim
leaders make: women need not wear the veil;
schooling should be compulsory, and so on.
But his latest announcement had been spec-
tacular.

“Ramadan fasting should be abolished!” he
had said firmly. He quoted the Koran. ** *War-
riors need not fast during a battle.’ We are all
warriors in the economic battle against pov-
erty and illiteracy. Fasting reduces our ability
to fight.”

All talk of Joseph’s book was forgotten.

“What do you think of Si Hassan’s coup?
Will Morocco adopt the idea?’’ Karl asked.

Joseph spoke slowly, as though he were
formulating thoughts new even to himself. “I
think that Si Hassan ts right.”

As Joseph went on, I listened astonished. He
was saying things he had never expressed be-
fore. “As for Morocco, it will be up to the
king. We have the same battles as Gharbiya.
Poverty, illiteracy, fear of being swamped by
greater nations. We have years to catch up
with your centuries. But it is impossible to
compete when we are really hungry, to work,
fight, as Si Hassan puts it, during the fast. I
know. I am Muslim, no matter what I look
like. I could no more not be Muslim than I
could shed my skin.” Then with sudden
vehemence he said, “But I still think that we
could do with some reforms in Islam! And if
Hassan wants to start them, I’m behind him.”

“But you keep the fast, don’t you?” Sara
was the only one innocent enough to ask the
basic question.

“Yes, Cammie can tell you that. I couldn’t
not keep it, with Halti looking up to me as if I
were some minor god, and mother—well, it is
not just the law, it is a matter of family.’ His
answer was disarming.

“Of course!” Lady Mills agreed, setting her
chin as if she were facing the battle too.

Sara’s dinner was a success. It was a farewell
feast, for the school spring holidays were be-
ginning. Roy was leaving for Rome for two
weeks; the four single teachers had rented a
car for a trip into the desert. Phyllis turned to
me. She was all friendliness. ““And what are
you going to do over the holidays?”

Joseph’s hand closed over mine before I
could answer. “We're going over to Malaga

for a few days,” he said. ““We’ll be back for the
new term, of course.”

“Good.” Phyllis seemed really pleased.
“Then you'll be here for my next party. You
must come.”

Joseph bowed his most English bow. “De-
lighted.”” For seven years she had lived in
Tangier, but this was the first time she had in-
vited a Moroccan into her home. I could see
Lady Mills breathe a sigh of relief when Karl
hastened to give his approval, beaming at us as
though we were old friends.

Joseph had been right; the holiday was what
we needed. We crossed to Algeciras on the
ferry, and took a bus along the coast to Malaga.
Joseph made no pretense of fasting. He had
brought his manuscript and spent hours each
day writing and correcting pages. While he
worked I sat at the balcony of our hotel room,
watching the narrow street just below us. I
admitted to myself, but not to Joseph, that I
was glad not to see veiled women, or maimed
children begging in the streets. I was glad to
escape the smell of saffron and the boom of
the cannon at dusk.

After the siesta hour we went down to the
center of the town and sat at a café until it was
time for the paseo. Not even rain could stop
the Spanish from taking their evening walk.
We strolled too. After supper at the hotel we
ventured out again to visit some sawdusty,
wine-reeking bar where the midnight and the
free copas encouraged the gypsy-souled ha-
bitués to wail their flamencos or to pound
their heels in a hypnotizing dance. We were
usually the only foreigners. Sometimes as we
left I would look at my watch in astonishment,
finding that I had been sitting for three hours
on a hard keg, leaning against a cold cement
wall. There wasn’t a movie or a play which
could have held me so long in such a place.

Joseph understood. “It is the same with
me,” he said. “Sometimes in Tangier ——’
He paused as though there were something he
did not want to tell me.

“Are there places like this in Tangier?”

“One or two. Then there are the Arab tea-
shops. Rather low-class, some of them. My
father wouldn’t go to them. But the men dance
almost the same way as these gypsies dance.
Spontaneous. Almost wild at times.”

“I'd like to see them.” There was an awk-
ward silence; I knew I had said something
foolish. The tearooms were innocent; but
women simply didn’t go to them. The half-
forgotten indignation flared up again. I forced
myself to leave it unvoiced. I was happy that
night; I was free to be with Joseph here in
Spain; why worry about the musty tearooms
in Tangier? But it was not just the tearooms, I
argued, it was the Moroccan dinners, and cer-
tain rooms of the houses, and the best seats on
the buses. Men and women were always sep-
arate, and the men always first.

Oi we went to Mass together. We stood
in the back of the old cathedral and watched
the long procession of communicants shuffiing
toward the blazing altar.

Joseph had never heard Gregorian chants
before. He was enthusiastic about them
“Wonderfully solemn. Mystic. And those chil-
dren’s voices—lovely !”*

We left the church and headed away from
the crowds toward our own narrow street.

I said, “You have to hear them inside a
cathedral; no recording could catch those
echoes.”

“Someday Ill take you to one of the big
mosques in the East. The atmosphere is differ-
ent, of course, but it is just as overpowering.
The Koranic chants, too—you must hear
them.”

“A shame I have to wait to go to the East
before I can see a mosque.” I was surprised at
the bitterness in my voice. Morocco, unlike
most Muslim countries, did not allow infidels
to enter her holy places.

We climbed the steps to our room in silence.
Finally, when we had settled into the big bed,
Joseph spoke, as though he were voicing a
long-thought-about decision.

“Tm not a reformer, Cammie,” he said
“But I have got to make a stand. And you
must help me.”

I knew what he was leading to. “Anything
you think I can do.”

“Just go with me when I ask you. I can’t
leave Morocco. I thought I could. But it is all
too much a part of me. My work is centered
there. Yet I can’t stay on knowing you are
miserable. We hz t to meet people who are
like ourselves; we should go out in public more
often, and even eat at the Arab restaurants
once in a while. You'll usually be the only
woman, but we have got to make more of a
start. You are the one I have been trying to
protect. Men stare, and talk, and you'll under-
stand that much of what they say isn’t compli-
mentary, but bit by bit, as people get used to
seeing you as my wife’’—he said this fiercely—
“they will begin to treat you with respect, just
as if you were veiled the way my mother is

when she goes out.”

“And Ramadan?”

“That I don’t know. It is still the law. But I
feel Si Hassan is right. I'll keep the fast any-
way as long as Halti is with us. But I think Pll
do this one thing: I’ll drink water. You don’t
think that is too cowardly, do you?”

“Oh, Joseph!” I moved closer to him. “I
love you! A glass of water! How could I say
anything against it?” I laughed at his scruples,
awed as I was by their fineness.

‘And another thing,”’ he announced. “When
we are not out together, I intend to stay home,
and to go to bed like an old married man.”

“You sound like New Year’s Day. Don’t
make any rash resolutions.”

He was hurt. “I am serious. I have been
thinking a lot of things out. My being a Mus-
lim isn’t the real barrier between us. It is sim-
ply our different ways of looking at twenty-
four hours.”

It sounded ridiculous when he said it. But he
had touched the sore spot. My work kept me
to a schedule. His changed from day to day.
He lived the way Arab men had always lived;
without routine, without compulsion. The-
ology did not divide us, but the clock. The
clock that drove me, and which he ignored.

I sighed and agreed.

“Now you sound mournful.’’ He laughed,
pulling me toward him. “It is going to be all
right. You'll see. Believe me.”

The roofs of Tangier belong to the women.
In the mornings the laundry is hung. A wind
will lift the clothes staggered out on lines as
irregular as a child’s drawing. From a distance
the movement makes the rooftops shimmer
like a strayed mirage. The last sheet or turban
hung, the washerwomen ease themselves into
position, on guard as it were, against the rob-
ber wind. Arms akimbo, leaning over the
parapets, they remain, one on each roof,
chatting across the housetops.

Fatima’s roof was especially comfortable.
There was a small shelter at one end, furnished
with benches and low tables. Here, even when
it rained, one could sit and watch the sea, and
take tea in comfort. I never tired of this view,
and when Fatima discovered how I loved it,
she arranged that all our lesson times should
be spent in this shelter.

One afternoon the maid rushed up the stairs
panting, gesturing, almost in terror.

Fatima got her to speak, listened unmoved,
then waved her away. She gathered our papers
together, hid the pencils in her robe, thrust the
book into my lap, leaned back and said qui-
etly, “My husband is coming.”

The girl’s panic had been contagious. I rose
to go, to hide myself from Joseph’s father.

Fatima laid a hand on my arm, restraining
me. “I will speak,” she said. And then we
heard the laborious breathing, the shuffling as
the old man toiled up the steps.

ryn
| he old n

my fathe
There we
he must ha
he stooped,
was somethii
toward us with «
short when h
trembling han

an. I could hardly think of him as
in-law. He was older than grandpa.

great dignity to him. He was tall;
been taller when young, for now
| in his rounded shoulders there
finitely ancient. He hurried
lick shuffling step, stopped
sight of me, and let his

his siae,.

He greeted
Fatima with a
“Come sit down, Habibi.” Fatima smiled
and patted the cushion beside her. ‘‘This is an
American lady with 1
Fatima said nothing more until she had
poured him a glass of tea. She sipped it herself,

almost in a gesture of ; ( before she

handed it to him. He sucked the hot liquid
greedily, as though he were rewarding himself
for having made the effort of climbing the
steps. Finally he leaned forward, put the glass
down on the table, hiked his robes up a bit
more, and tucked his sock-clad feet under him.
He was now in a position to see me, and he
stared at me frankly.

The truth dawned on me. He had come
rushing to the roof believing he would find
Fatima with some other man. He was jealous.
He had mastered himself beautifully, and so
had Fatima, for I knew she realized why he
had invaded the women’s sanctuary. She
gloated in her innocence and covered him with
smiles. But he was not to be won. He frowned,
and there was something terrible in this rem-
nant of a strong man’s anger.

“‘Why?” This time he demanded an answer.

Fatima lost her guile. ““We are reading, my
lord; that is, my friend is reading to me. And
we come here so as not to bother the other
women. Also, my friend loves to watch the
sea.”

He showed a flicker of understanding; any
Arab could sympathize with wonder at the
sea. But it was necessary to keep the upper
hand. ‘““What are you reading?” He shot this
at me.

Fatima picked up the book from my lap
and showed it to him. I stared; somehow she
had substituted, probably at the moment I had
started to leave, a Spanish book. I saw its
title, A Thousand and One Nights. He read the
title and approved.

“Go on.”’ He handed the book to me. Some
of its pages were still uncut. I took it almost
in terror. Fatima smiled blandly.

I asked, ““Do you understand Spanish?”

“Very well,’’ he answered.

I began.

The saving thing about the Arabian Nights
is that they are so funny. Within ten minutes
the three of us were roaring with laughter at
Scheherazade, her sister and her fascinated
husband. My throat was dry, and I had reached
the point where the pages were still uncut. I
apologized for stopping and explained that
I had classwork to prepare for the next day.
The old man nodded kindly, rose to see me
off and asked when I would come next. I ex-
plained hastily that I worked, that I did not
live in the Medina, that it was difficult.

He waved away my objections. “I can send
a car for you. Tomorrow. What time?”

“IT suppose four would do.” How could I
explain this to Joseph? The humor of the
situation did not strike me then. I felt sur-
rounded, and I saw that I would get no help
from Fatima. As I left I looked at her in en-
treaty. She dropped the mask for one second.
Her look was almost devilish with mischief.

Si Krim’s car was waiting for me as I left
the school the next afternoon. And the next.

And the next. I became as much a prisoner
to those tales as Scheherazade had been.

Joseph knew about this, of course. He had
approved all along of my visits with Fatima,
and thought it a great joke now that his
father should be relying on an unwanted
daughter-in-law for entertainment. Seeing
the old man closely every day, I realized that
only in height and profile did Joseph resemble
him. In all else he was like his mother. Now
Joseph’s laughing at the old man seemed to me
as unkind as Fatima’s.

One night I stopped him. ‘““Don’t be mean!”

“Mean? After the way the old boy has
made me suffer, I think I am being very kind
not to hate him.”

“But Joseph, he is your father!”

An the more reason. Heaven help me if
when I am a father ” He shook his head,
then looked at me speculatively. “Maybe, my
sweet, we should think of that soon.”

‘Perhaps,’ I said hastily. I was suddenly
afraid of the thought. If I had not worked we
could not have lived in the European quarter.
On the tiny amount Joseph earned we would
have been reduced, like the laborers, to eating
meat only once or twice a week. How could
he talk about another mouth to feed?

Lady Mills was typing a great deal for
Joseph these days. I often left portions of the
manuscript at her house on my way to my
reading sessions in the Medina. This was one
more joke on the old man. He knew, of course,
that I asked the chauffeur to wait for me while
I ran into her house with my envelope of pa-
pers. But he did not know that the papers were
the book which his idle son was writing. Some-
times I found myself very strongly on the old
man’s side. This was against all reason, for I
had been the one to volunteer to work while
Joseph finished his book, and I enjoyed the
teaching. But I rejoiced each time that he gave
me a sheaf of scribbled, corrected notes that
brought us that much closer to its end.

“Ninety-nine miles to go,” I said once, when
I dropped a packet of papers down on Lady
Mills’s desk.

“What, dear?’’ she asked.

“Ninety-nine miles. You know the old song.
‘We walk a mile, we rest a while, ninety-eight
miles to go!’ When will that blasted book be
finished so that we can start to live normally?”

She cocked her head at me. “Normally?
What is that?”

“You know’’—I spoke offhandedly—*‘Jo-
seph with a job. Regular hours, regular pay.”

“Is that what Joseph wants too?”

I shrugged. “I presume. I can’t imagine that
we'll go on trying to live on the little I earn.”

“Yes, it is very little,” she answered thought-
fully. ““A shame your father-in-law won't
help.”

“Ellen and I are getting serious, pop. How can I get out of it?”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

“Sidi Krim? Not a chance. Yet once Joseph Jy {is
was his favorite, and the other women tell me fi
his heart was broken when Joseph refused all }))! 0
the offers he made him five years ago. Fatima |}!!!
doesn’t even dare to talk about it.” i

“Fatima.” Lady Mills mused. ‘She must } ys:
be remarkable,” she declared. “Do you like tj!)
her?” soe

“Very much. But she is deep—much deeper } (i!)
than you would guess. Except for the quarrel f°
between them, she can wind both Joseph and Jui
the old man around her little finger.” By oft

“I have always believed that. Not about J}
her, particularly, but about Arab women in }}ji:!
general. They are the real powers in this }ipix
country.” ig he

“Really?” I was startled. shad)

“Of course. How else can they have re- }ja1
venge? I have never met a Moroccan woman fie
who did not have character. Strong character, |} qi!
An American woman would have to goa long Phy rell
way to match them.”

The thought was new to me. “Why do you }i i
say that? We are educated, and free. And }piib
think of how many votes, how much money }}j,;
we control. These women, they have nothing, })w;
not even the right to put five dollars in the Jim
bank in their own name.” drt

“Money, votes, regular hours, regular pay. }y(i
Really, Cammie, you disappoint me. Give }jjgi
these things to a woman like Fatima and how Ji!
do you think she will use them?” Waku

I saw what Lady Mills was trying to say. J)jy
Fatima was too wily to use a lesser weapon jj)
than her femininity. Hh

“What matters to a woman, my dear, is a |)
man. Her man. The thing to consider is you }}yj
and Joseph. You think I don’t know that you ]}.,
are worried? You think the solution would be |}:
for Joseph to earn more money since you j}¥;
can’t. It is money, isn’t it?” ah

She went on, saying things I had barely and An
briefly admitted, then quickly passed off: “So J},
you begin to see how easy life is for the women _ }}\¥,
whose husbands have conventional work, and Jj},
you hanker after a ‘normal’ life. As much as jh
you believed in Joseph when you first mar- |},
ried—and, my dear, I loved you for the way |),
you spoke of him in those days—such faith }\,
was what he needed. But now you lose that |)»;
faith and just because of money.” Hi)
I hated to hear it. I would have tramped i:
through burning sands to bring Joseph water; }

I would have starved to give him food. But . '
this way of living—with, but not part of, }},.
people who could hail a taxi without a pang }},
of conscience, who could indulge in tea at }},
Portes’ every afternoon. This was more than 4},
I had bargained for. I was equal to the big

sacrifices, but not the little ones. Rr

Lady Mills started to gather the papers to- _ }}
gether. Her manner was practical, as though ff},
she were a chairman summarizing the meeting. }}),
“So what are you going to do about it? You ,
don’t actually want Joseph to stop this, now fh,
he is so close to the end. But you really neec
more money. How much rent do you pay?” ‘
she asked.

I told her.

She puckered her lips in surprise. “Well, the | |
old man isn’t quite as mean as I thought he
was.”

“The old man?”

“Of course. He owns the building you live

in. ’'m sure Joseph doesn’t even realize. It’s
only by chance that I found out. All his other
sons are living in villas or apartments that the

old man owns. Rent free. Do you see, really, |

any reason why Joseph should be paying even
the sum he does?”

I suddenly had a vision of all we could do
with our rent money; a new dress, a few din-
ners out, real shelves instead of packing cases
for Joseph’s books. I sighed.

Lady Mills argued on. “Sooner or later
they'll get together, but it is up to you to see
that it is sooner.”

“Joseph would never ——” I could see him
setting his chin already. But, tempted, I asked,
“Is the old man really that rich?”

*“Anyone in Morocco who can afford a new
American car each year, like the one that is
waiting outside, is very, very rich. That rent
means nothing to him. Cammie, be practical.
I suspect Sidi Krim knows very well who you
are. It is all a game to him too. You mustn’t
disappoint him by not playing along.”

(UARY, 1962

he kissed me and waved me off, while I
still asking, ““But how on earth .. . what
luld I do?”
You'll know, my dear. You'll know.” And
big paneled door closed behind me.
was still a bit dazed when I reached the
dina. Otherwise I would have noticed and
d more into the way I was received that
. Only now does Fatima’s air of distraction
‘2 on meaning. The old man could not join
‘she said. He had “‘business.”
he offered me tea in her room. Neither of
proposed to resume the dropped lessons.
‘did she invite the other women to join us.
s in itself should have warned me.
nd then her question, demanding, abrupt:
o baby yet?”
was annoyed. Why did she importune me?
he leaned toward me, putting her heavy
id on my knee. “You must have a baby.
u really must.”
burst out, still full of what Lady Mills had
i, “How could we afford to buy diapers
_a baby when neither of us have bought so
ch as a new handkerchief for ourselves this
't year?” And I cried.
“atima forgot her self-concern in trying to
‘afort me. ““Meskina, meskina!”’ she crooned.
>or little one.”
cried all the harder. Even if I were the one
ring Joseph and his father together as Lady
lls had said, how was I to do it? It was not
t that I did not want to connive, it was that
id not have the least idea where to begin.
*What is the trouble?” she asked.
*I—I want a new dress, and ——’
Nith Fatima it was not necessary to have a
»per reason for tears. She understood im-
diately. “Of course. Of course.’’ She pulled
self together and rose to go to the court-
‘d where she could be heard by the maid.
2 paused a moment, then gasped, and started
bk.
si Krim was coming out of a room on the
ier side of the courtyard. He was scowling;
/saw Fatima, shook his head, then, as if
‘inging his mind, started toward us. I was
| sobbing. He stood over me asking,
feskina, what is it?”
=atima answered, “She wants a new dress.”
de looked as though an immense load was
_his mind. Here was a problem he could
dle. He snapped something to Fatima; she
appeared, clapping for the maid. The old
n sat down beside me, saying nothing,
wning as though the very pattern in the
: confused him.
{ swallowed the last of my tears, dried my
*s, and sat in the half-gloom with him.
vtely my woes had not affected him this
ich? If Fatima had not come back just then,
vould have begun to giggle in hysteria. But
> Sat sighing as heavily as he had.
The spell was broken when the maid came
ttering back. She carried two dresses over
t arm. They must have come from one of
shops near the Casbah, though they were
t the sort of dresses one eversees on display.
1ey were too lovely.
1
‘he old man leaned forward, fingered them
th, dismissed one, and then, finally, smiling
ghtly, handed me the other. “Stand up,” he
mmanded.
And I held the remaining dress against me,
hast at its weight. It was not, of course, the
nple little dress I had in mind. It was a
roccan ceremonial robe, black velvet en-
ted with beads, trimmed with gold braid,
ibroidered and lined with red silk. It was
ore beautiful than any of Fatima’s I had
2n; it was a museum piece, regal.
Fatima’s eyes shone. No woman could re-
se such a dress, even knowing she could
ver wear it.
“Do you like it?” the old man asked.
It was easy to say yes.
“Fine, fine.” He slapped his knee and rose.
t is yours. But you must keep coming to
ad to me.’ He gestured toward the arch
ding to the main part of the house. “But
ty don’t you come to my salon? Fatima can
in us there. The couches are much more
mfortable there.”
Fatima hastened to agree, as though her
vn couches had become suddenly unbear-
le. I could only acquiesce. They both seemed
ppier and he turned, smiling, to give me his

hand. I could see that this time he expected me
to kiss it. The other women all greeted him
this way. Fatima never failed to kiss his hand
when he joined us. But with me, his gesture
was not a condescension; he seemed instead
to be giving me something. I hesitated a
second, then took the gnarled old hand and
kissed it. He touched his fingers to his heart,
smiled again, and left.

I paraded the dress for Joseph that night.
He thought it was magnificent. The black was
perfect with my blond hair. How did they
happen to give it to me? I told him the story.

“And you were crying for a dress?’ He was
thoughtful. “‘They must think I neglect you
terribly.”

“Oh, no. Fatima at least knows that I want
you to keep writing. She understands. And
your father—I’m sure that he still doesn’t
know I’m married to you. I was just being
childish, but he took me seriously, and... .
gave me this.”

I spread its skirt, laughing at the extrava-
gance, but still filled with chagrin that it
wasn’t the simple dress I needed.

Joseph felt the material, examined the braid.
“Wait here!”’ he said suddenly. He left the
apartment, and was back in half an hour with
a bundle under his arm. He unwrapped it
carefully: a pair of shoes, Moroccan slippers,
black velvet too, embroidered in gold, made
to wear with such a robe. I hardly knew
whether to laugh or cry as he gave them to
me. He was grinning like a boy.

I put on the outfit. I almost choked as I
thanked him.

He did not notice. “Show them to mother
tomorrow. She must really think I am cruel
to you, not to buy you pretties. But just wait.
Someday

I looked at him. There was such hope and
confidence in his eyes that I felt ashamed.
Impulsively I put my cheek next to his.

“I know. Someday. Then Ill buy you
pretties too. What would you like, a pretty
convertible or a pretty race horse?”

“H’m-m-m. It is difficult. Can’t I have
both?”
“Greedy. Let’s walk downtown this eve-

ning. I feel like having coffee at the Place de
France.”

“Coffee? Fine,’ Joseph said.

I changed the robe; Halti hung it up
reverently. I packed away the shoes and put
on my old dress—the dress I had been wearing
for such walks for the past three years. As I
buttoned it, looking at myself in the mirror,
I made my decision: I would do what I could
to bring Joseph’s father to his aid.

The chauffeur drove me to the front door of
the old man’s house from then on. Now, in-
stead of being secretive, the doorman bowed
and led me to the room where the old man
waited, lounging on a divan, Fatima at his
side. I hardly ever saw her alone, and I felt
somehow estranged from her. I had managed
to show her the shoes. She was pleased that
Joseph had given them to me. “Next he should
buy you bracelets,” she commented.

The afternoon visits now consisted of this:
I opened the book, read the usual chapter of
ten or eleven pages, sipped tea, and left. We
hardly talked during tea. But the old man was
so polite, so genuinely eager to hear my stories,
that I knew I was welcome. I never found the
moment to broach the subject of Joseph. I
read; I left. It could have gone on forever.

Roy had planned a school program for the
close of the term. My first-graders were to sing
two songs, and then to sit in a line at the foot
of the stage holding a garland to frame the rest
of the program. Laweel’s father, as usual, sup-
plied the paper for making the garland. It had
to be thirty feet long, and there was no one
else but me to make it.

I rather enjoyed the first three feet. The
second three feet were a bore; the third three
feet . . . by the time I finished what seemed
like thirty miles of flowers, my hands were
discolored and swollen; I had cut myself in
three places and I was cursing myself for
having offered to make it.

It was a day for me to read to the old man.
We passed our usual hour; I started to leave,

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and followed the servant out to the court-
yard. Somehow in switching my book from
one hand to the other I had pushed a bandage
off one of the cuts on my hand. The cut was
still bleeding, so I told the servant to wait, and
turned toward the harem where I knew I could
find a water faucet.

A narrow corridor led from the garden of
the harem to the stairway going to the roof.
The faucet was in the shelter of this stairwell.
I stood there, blowing my hand dry, when I
heard someone coming down from the roof. I
looked up and saw a girl vaguely familiar to
me. She came down cautiously, one step at a
time, and I saw that she took such care be-
cause she had a child tied to her back, a
rather large child to be carried in such a way,
supported like a papoose. She was beautiful,
there was no other word for her. In spite of
tattoos I suddenly remembered.

“Oh!” I startled her, explaining foolishly,
“You came to my house one day.”

She was on a level with me now. She stared
at me. Then she too remembered.

I asked cautiously, “Who are you?”

“IT am Zora, Yussef Krim’s wife.”

Yussef Krim? Joseph?

She answered my unspoken question, “His
first wife.” In Arabic it came out as ““Number
One Wife,” his principal wife.

I leaned against the stairway, suddenly faint.

I could see the child now, a little boy, nod-
ding against her shoulder. He stirred and
opened his eyes; they were bright blue. I drew
back, then looked in fright at the mother.

“See?” she Said. “This is his son.”

Someone called from the end of the corridor
and she answered, “I am coming, mother.”

I looked toward the garden; Fatima was
standing there, silhouetted in the light.

“Zora, have you seen Cammie?”

The girl motioned toward the corner wl ere
I stood.

Fatima waited for me. I went to the garden,
asking Fatima, “Is the girl mad? She says she
is Joseph’s wife!”

“No, she is not mad,’ Fatima answered.
The mask she had worn with me for weeks
was suddenly gone. She turned to go back to
the old man’s salon; I knew that I was to
follow.

I saw by Si Krim’s expression that he knew
I had met the girl.

“What did she say to you?” he asked.

“She said she was *” T hesitated even
then to speak of Joseph. “You know that I
am married to your son?”

“Of course. I have always known. He is
foolish to think he can keep a secret from me.””

“Then why do you keep a girl in your house
who lies, who calls herself Joseph’s wife?”

H. answered, shaking his head as though
he knew my anger was just, “She does not
lie; they were married four years ago. She is
the girl I chose for him. He stayed with her,
or she with him, less than half a year. Then” —
he spread his hands wide—‘‘he sent her back
to her family. He divorced her. She did not
dispute it until, until—it sometimes happens
this way—she discovered she was about to
have a child. Less than a year later. None of
us suspected it. You do not understand the
Koranic law—a man has to let a certain num-
ber of months pass before his divorce is legal.
This is in case there is an unborn child ——”

I suddenly realized that if the story were
true—and my head still swam with disbelief—
Joseph had said three times in front of wit-

nesses, “I divorce you; I divorce you; I
divorce you.” At the time there was no need
for papers, no need for court action. I could
not picture this. Surely Joseph

The old man went on, “Yussef claims that
all was in order. But when the child was
born . the timing was right; and we saw,
anybody could see ~

I nodded. I too had seen.

The old man shook himself and went on.

“But still he would not take her back. The son.

yes. But how would he have cared for a child?
The way he lived, with nothing but bits of
paper and books and his foreign friends.” His
tone became bitter. “I turned him out. I was
sick of him. I won’t have anything to do with
him.”

I saw that his jaw trembled, and that he
steadied it with an effort. His pride had been

hurt, but he was heartsick too. He whispered,
almost fiercely, ““I am ashamed of him.”

It was the most terrible thing he could have
said. Shocked, almost embarrassed to see his
misery, I looked away from him to Fatima.

But the old man wasn’t finished. ““When he
married you, and the girl heard of it, she came
here. She brought my grandson. And now she
claims that because of the boy, the divorce
was never legal. Her family—they are not
ordinary.”’ A family which was not ordinary
had money, power, influence—this was what
he was saying. They would back her claims.

He looked up, as if to focus on me for the
first time. ““But you, you are his wife too. You

have the papers. While she, she has the child.
The law, our Koranic law, will try to protect
you both. The girl was here before the new
laws were passed’’—he meant the laws against
polygamy and the laws requiring civil mar-
riages and civil divorces—‘‘while you came
later.”

He was saying that if either marriage was
illegal, it was mine. If the girl could prove—
and who could disbelieve it?—that the child
was Joseph’s conceived before the divorce,
Joseph was hers. She had money; she had a
powerful family; she had borne a son. I was
the foreigner, and in their eyes, barren. Every-
thing worked against me.

As if to comfort me, Fatima said, “But you
are his favorite. You are the one he prefers,”
I stared at her as if I were watching a film, #"
She spoke from her heart. She gave me the }'
one thing which she herself had clung to for’ Di
thirty years. No. 3 (or was it No. 10?) Wife, |
but the favorite —— 3"
I started to speak; I thought better of it, T) Ms
finally picked up my book and went out. 2k
Fatima stopped me. “Don’t be too hard
on him,” she said. At first I thought she meant/
the old man. “He didn’t want to hurt you. He F
thought everything was arranged.” yt
She was trying to excuse him. It was Joseph | hs
she was talking about. But, looking at he i

DO
PARENTS
LEACH

ee iene

By BENJAMIN SPOCK, M.D.

I guess that most of us have some kind of prejudice. Though a
prejudice may be positive, we usually think of the negative kind:
the objection to a whole class of people on the basis of experience
with a certain number, or simply on hearsay. Some prejudices,
like those against divorcees, artists, clergymen or Ivy Leaguers,
cause disadvantage only to the people who hold them, in the
sense that these individuals automatically cut themselves off
from contacts which might be valuable in different ways. It’s the
prejudices shared by the members of a dominant group and car-
ried out into discrimination against others which really hurt.

I try to imagine, sometimes, how painful it must be for a par-
ent to have to tell his young son (and it has to be told by the
time he is four or five) that he will automatically be considered
undesirable, no matter how good his character and behavior,
that he will have to be prepared for slights and insults beginning
soon. If your child is being picked on by one bully, it’s not diff-
cult to explain that this individual is rude or all mixed up. But
what do you say when it is the bulk of the community? It must
be hard to reconcile this, for him, with the religious and ethical
ideals you are trying to teach—about God’s justice, the good 1n-
tentions of most people, the obligation to respect them. We know
that children (and adults) are influenced to behave according to
the expectations of the community. I think it’s a tribute to the
good job done by the overwhelming majority of parents of
scorned groups that their children have grown up not too seri-
ously impaired by the low opinion in which they are held in the
community.

We are less apt to think about the effect of serious prejudices
on those who hold them—and on their children. At first glance
you might think that, being in the supposedly preferred posi-
tion, they wouldn’t really be harmed. But I think that from the
psychological point of view there must always be at least some
damage to personality. The young child who is being taught —
by parents or playmates—to look down on or shun a group is
usually being given the impression that they are somehow dan-
gerous. Remarks such as ‘““They aren’t like us”. . . ““They aren’t
nice’... ““They’re dirty’”” have a vaguely ominous sound. It’s
left to the anxious imagination of the preschooler to picture just
what the danger consists of. This has the same effect on children
as giving them fears about policemen or bogeymen or kidnap-
ers, which most educated parents try to avoid nowadays. To the
degree that the child takes the warnings seriously, he feels en-
dangered by the group. This impairs his trust in people and—
more seriously —his trust in his own ability to deal with people.
It also gives him, as he grows older, an unwholesome method for
bolstering his ego when he secretly feels inadequate. I think that
most of us, when we hear a grown man making sneering remarks
about a minority, immediately sense his lack of self-confidence,
his readiness to seek solace through scorn, and we lose some of
our respect for him. So it seems to me unhealthy, from the
point of view of the child’s own welfare, to start him out with
ready-made fears, ready-made self-doubts, ready-made props.

I suppose that the readiness of human beings to believe ill of
an entire group, or to swell their dislike of a few individuals into a
wholesale prejudice, is a capacity which was built into humanity

DR. SPOCK TALKS WITH MOTHERS

“The young child who is being taught—
by parents or playvymates—

to look down on or shun a group

is usually being given the impression
that they are somehow dangerous.”

4
during the savage process of evolution, so that men who were *!'
threatened with a genuine plot or an enemy tribe would be sus-
picious enough to fit little pieces of evidence together and to take
alarm. It is illuminating and disheartening to read, for instance, #!
a description by an anthropologist of tribe A on a Pacific island
who are nice people, but who believe that tribe B, a few miles } 4
away, are fiends. When the anthropologist moves over to live
with tribe B, he finds that they, too, are agreeable people, but ji
they feel terribly threatened by what they consider the blood- fi!
thirsty barbarians of tribe A. In a discouragingly similar way, in}
times of hot or cold war in the twentieth century, Russians, #4!
Germans, Britons, Japanese, Americans have been easily con- {
vinced that the enemy were hardly human. qu

But experience in the psychiatric clinic as well as in life shows
us that there is enormous variation in the amount of suspicious- fi
ness and hostility in different individuals. One child grows up
ready to hate almost everybody. Another, reared in an unusually jit"
loving and peaceful family, cannot be taught a deep distrust of 1 a
anyone. re

It may be helpful for our discussion if I point out some of the _} &:
violently prejudiced distortions of thinking which are obvious in_ fit
the mental-hospital patients whom we call paranoid. This should hia
aid our understanding of some of the deeply hidden roots of or- an
dinary prejudice in everyday people, since most of us have the |}
capacity to think in a slightly paranoid way when we feel jit
threatened. If insecurity drives the paranoid individual into de- |}
lusions, he imagines that he is both a victim of persecution and |/2i
at the same time a highly important personage—the head of the | fi
Secret Service, for instance, or the leader of a worldwide reli- |}?
gioussect. He keepsenlarging his estimate of the plot against him- }}ij|
self until it involves an entire fraternal order, or the hierarchy of |} fu
another religion, or international Communism. Though his re- }}it
action is insanely exaggerated, it reminds us of the ordinary per- {|
son whose sense of inadequacy makes him feel threatened by a Vii
whole group and who tries to overcome it by thinking and talk- }}ri
ing about how superior he is to them. apn

Paranoid individuals are also haunted by sexual jealousy.. | tu
They frequently imagine, when sick, that many people are j/i\i
carrying on successful affairs with their spouses. Hitler, who was | m0
not insane by the usual definition but who was severely para-
noid in personality, rose to power in part by selling his idea that ;
the Jews were all plotting together to destroy Germany. And hes Wir
and many of his henchmen kept themselves in a frenzy with the } |
fantasy that the Jews were successfully seducing ‘‘Aryan”’ girls })q;
on a wholesale scale. In the end he nearly destroyed his nation. 4)

This reminds us of the preoccupation of some race-prejudiced } hay;
Americans (from all parts of the country) whose most impas-
sioned argument for segregation is their assumption that if white |,
girls should go to school with Negroes or work with them, they’d 4%)
automatically prefer to marry them. These men repeat, with }/0y,
childish belief, fantastic tales about the superior virility of Ne- }/¢\
groes. (Doctors know that sexual success and doubt and failure })%y,
are the monopoly of no race.) When the integrated use of chil- |),
dren’s public swimming pools has been discussed in certain })\\);
cities, the agitated opponents have not objected so much to}

|
| NUARY, 1962

|:ing those blue eyes which were his, which
re his son’s, all I could remember was see-
ls them return my stare that night Joseph
jd told me about the girl, the wedding plans.
)*Did you marry her?’ I had asked.

No,” he said, and his eyes had been steady.
bw could I believe in him after that? And
| the nights he had left me—to see his friends,
| had said. I felt suddenly dizzy, over-
jielmed to think that his kindness, his open-
ss, the qualities I most loved in him, were
| falsest. A house of cards, a hoax.

‘L turned and left.

‘Suddenly I was back at the apartment, not
owing if I had walked or taken a taxi. Joseph

was in his study. I went in without knocking.
He must have thought I was sick, for he
started up from his desk almost in a panic of
concern. ‘““What is the matter?”

“T just met Zora. Your wife.”

He slumped back into his chair. “Oh,
Cammie!”

I couldn’t hold it any longer. “You lied to
me! You said you hadn’t married her. You
said you left home rather than give in.”

“Tt was my son,” he began.

““And now she says she is still your wife,
and Fatima and your father say so too.
Everything you’ve said or been or done has
been a lie. No wonder you didn’t want anyone

but Roy at our wedding. No wonder you
haven’t introduced me to your friends.”

““Cammie!”’ He spread his hands wide, be-
seeching. “Please believe me!”

“You lied, how can I believe you?”

“I loved you, Cammie. I love you now.”

I turned and ran to my room. I packed ina
frenzy. I brushed past Halti and shouted as I
passed his door, “I’m leaving! Good luck to
you and your Zora!”

He didn’t answer; he didn’t look up; he
didn’t try to stop me.

Once in the street, I realized how late it was.
The town was closed in darkness, and I was

boys’ swimming with boys or girls with girls, but to white girls’
/wimming with Negro boys. These examples from the hospital
ind from the outside world give us clues to the basic importance
if insecurity —including sexual insecurity—in prejudice. (Fear
f competition for jobs is another factor.)

| But this is not to say that only the sick or the very insecure
jre prejudiced. If that were true, the solution would lie entirely
: ithin the field of preventive psychiatry. (It would be an enor-

nous burden for psychiatry, but it would excuse the rest of the

jommunity.) Unfortunately, a degree of prejudice can be taught
fasily to all except those who are thoroughly trustful and loving.
A tragic example is the apartheid movement in South Africa, in
yhich political leaders have convinced a majority of the elector-
ste (without valid evidence or provocation) that they are so
‘reatened that they must enact harshly discriminatory laws
jgainst Negroes and Asians. This campaign of fear and hostility
» creating, of course, the corresponding feelings in those who
ire attacked. Thus the political majority has made itself sick
vith suspicion and is inviting its own destruction.

| Babies and small children may be temporarily frightened by
Smeone who appears strange—in pigmentation or garb or
panner or tone of voice. But they sooner or later come to trust
mnyone who is sympathetic and affectionate. By four and five
fey are interested in their parents’ ideas about the world and
ensitive to their parents’ feelings about individual people. But
hey are not so ready for generalizations and rationalizations
hat. they can be said to have fixed prejudices. More important,
n regard to their future, is ‘whether they have learned to trust
heir parents’ consistent love and, through this, to trust other
xeople generally, and themselves.

For the specific teaching of tolerance or intolerance I think
hat the early school years are particularly important. At this
ge the child by his very nature is easily able to be pushed in
ither direction. He is seriously interested in what the outside
yorld—of contemporaries and adults—considers right and
ong. He feels the obligation to channel his aggression within
i

ocially acceptable limits. He wants to be a member of the
right”’ group and to conform to its pattern. He’s ready to dis-
pprove of “‘wrong”’ individuals and groups. If he spends these
fears with friends and adults who have common prejudices, he
lakes these to be not only permissible but noble. He’s proud to
e included as a soldier on what he assumes is the righteous side.
t if his parents and particularly his teacher (whom he now
jonsiders a higher authority than parents) take advantage of the
‘casions provided by books, the news, the neighborhood, the
assroom itself, they can teach tolerance instead. They can
gree with him that everyone has personal likes and dislikes,
Most of which he’s entitled to. They can show him that every
acial, religious and nationality group has produced benefactors,
coundrels and everything in between. They can point out that
i very same groups which are looked down on in one country
e well accepted in another. They should explain with regret
hat prejudices aréheld in all parts of the country and that much
f the undesirable behavior of certain members of groups, for
vhich the whole group is blamed, are fostered by the discrimina

+ aie”

tion they suffer. They can demonstrate by all kinds of examples
that acceptance brings out the best in everyone.

When children are taught tolerance they do not merely accept
it grudgingly. They respond to it and practice it with enthusiasm
because it appeals to their straightforward sense of right. I know
because I’ve seen it happen, in families and in good schools.

Dr. Spock regrets that it is impossible for him to answer letters personally. How-
ever, he is delighted to receive suggestions of topics of truly general interest. —ED

Some children grow up hating almost everybody. Others, reared
in loving families, cannot be taught a deep distrust of anyone.

FRANCEKEVICH

glad, for the tears I had held back so long
were finally streaming down my face. I sud-
denly realized how alone I was.

Sara? No, she would give me sympathy; she
would wring her hands and cry. Lady Mills
would reprimand me and ply me with advice.
I wanted none of this. All I needed was
help—practical help.

So I went to Roy. It was natural. It was he
who had offered.

Roy was kind to me that night; he does not
have it in him to be anything else. He was
shocked that I should even consider .
desertion. That was the word he used.

“Impossible! Just when he needs you the
most,” he began.

“He, need me ? After a whole year, almost a
year, of deceiving me every day ——”’ Then,
struck suddenly by the thought, I turned on
Roy. “You must have known too. Why didn’t
you tell me he had a wife and child?”

He looked uncomfortable. “It . . . really
wasn’t my place. I talked to him, tried to tell
him American women were different.”

“You can’t believe that. Even if I had been
a Zulu ——”

“And besides,” he went on, “you seemed so
right for him; so happy with him. I was hop-
ing * He finished defensively, “He did get
the divorce. I know. And he was practically
forced into that marriage. It was all Fatima
and Si Krim.”’

“He was an adult, wasn’t he?”

Roy seemed weary, disappointed. “You
mean you'll actually run away and leave him?
You don’t even want to help him?”

I looked up into his puzzled, uncompre-
hending eyes. Poor, poor Roy. He had never
really been in love. He couldn’t know

I did not try to explain. I shrugged; then,
in conciliation, I volunteered, “If somehow he
can straighten out the mess he'll know where
to find me.” Despair seized me again. ““And
if I stayed? How could I help? I don’t under-
stand the law. I’d have to take everything on
faith; my own children might be—might
turn out to be illegitimate.”

ie seemed to understand this. Or perhaps
it was my stubbornness which made him agree.
He took me to Sara’s apartment to spend the
night. And in the afternoon, just before he was
to preside over the graduation exercises, he
put me on the bus to Tetuan. There I caught
a plane to Madrid.

I took a room in one of those third-floor
pensions near the Puerta del Sol. As late as it
was, I wrote my letter to the school board
before I went to bed. I asked for my old job;
I told myself I was rushing the letter in hopes
of catching them before they hired another
first-grade teacher. But in reality I was forcing
myself to cross one more bridge, to make it
all the harder to turn back.

Madrid is hot this afternoon; the post office
is unusually late in opening. I stare across at
it, and a shimmer of heat waves makes the
huge gray building seem less solid.

I came to Madrid ten days ago. Ten days
since I saw Zora easing herself and the boy
down those stairs. Ten days of waiting here
for a plane to America, and for a letter from
my old school, St. Martin’s. It seems longer
than eternity.

Finally, now, the post-office doors were be-
ing opened. I left the café, crossed over to the
post office, and went in, blinking, for the in-
terior was like a great darkened theater after
the glare of the streets.

Joseph was standing in front of the Poste
Restante window. If I had seen him before, I
would have turned and run. Now he was be-
side me, hand on my elbow.

“Cammie ——”

“You did come.”

“Of course.”

In the great rotonde crowds brushed past
us. I forgot all my arguments for leaving him,
wanting no more in the world than to rest
my hand against him.

“T had to leave, you know.”

“T understand. Roy told me.”

“He didn’t understand.”

“Yes he did—but why are we talking
He put his hand up to my face and cupped my
cheek as one would a child’s. I turned my head
and kissed his palm. He smiled.

ereva

100

REVOLUTION/AND/ RELIGION

By DRw SAMUEL He ovInEEERK
DEAN OF HARVARD
DIVINITY (SCHOOL

Only one kind of religion counts today, and that
is the kind which is radical enough to engage in this
world’s basic troubles. If it cannot do that, then it
can do nothing which merits our concern or the
world’s respect. Religion which is interested only in
itself, in its prestige and success, in its institutions
and ecclesiastical niceties, 1s worse than vanity.
Religion reveals itself in struggling to reveal the
meaning of the world.

In the records of the trial of Joan of Arc there is
a moving passage in which she addresses her
judges. In all boldness she answered the bishop
questioning her: ““You say that you are my judge.
Take good care of what you do, for in truth I am
sent by God, and you are putting yourself in great
danger.”’ It does not require much manipulation to
turn this incident to our situation. If we think
ourselves sitting in judgment on the world—a very
favorite posture of the church and clergy, by the
way—we had better take warning. The world may
be sent by God, and unless we deal with it seriously
and humbly we may indeed be in great danger.

But honest men do not want easy answers,
trumped-up panaceas, peace of mind at any price.
They have a world on their hands, burgeoning with
unprecedented power, frightened by its own mo-
mentum, haunted by something that it lost a long
time ago.

It needs help, but not condescension. It needs
men bold, but modest, who will put a shoulder
under the darkness of a world where God is lost,
under lives where the pain of wanting to believe is
enough to break your heart; under the vast com-
passion of the lost, whose last hope and trust is
to be true to their fellowmen in an agony whose
meaning they cannot divine.

It has its hunger, terrible and ineluctable; it
will not be satisfied with “cheap grace’’ or specious
sentiments or pious respectability. It has doubts,
shame, pride, embarrassment and dread, and it
finds it hard to be honest, because we ourselves
are not often honest.

The world is sent by God, and we—ministers
of His grace—are in great danger.

“Everything is all right,” he said, and I knew
what he meant. Everything. Not just Zora
and the child, but everything. Everything be-
tween us.

We went back to my room. The old woman
who keeps the keys wouldn’t let us in at first.
She asked for Joseph’s passport. Joseph fum-
bled through his suitcase. He straightened, a
packet of papers in his hand. He selected one
and handed it to her, triumphant. Her frown
changed to a beam of benediction. She handed
me the paper and waved toward my room ex-
pansively. A photostat of our marriage certifi-
cate, translated, notarized, attested, stamped
in four different languages.

Joseph closed the door behind him, leaned
against it, and without a word pulled me to
him. We were both trembling.

After a long time he said, ‘““Never, never,
never leave me again.”

Was he going to scold me, now that we were
together again? Wasn’t being together all that
mattered ?

I knew that it wasn’t; but my relief, after the
ten days of being alone, was so great that I
didn’t want more in the world than to be held
this way, in his arms. But he was pushing me
away from him, making me sit on the one
chair in the room, taking a place for himself
on the cot, facing me.

“Cammie, I lied once, only once, to you.
And IJ had a reason. I am sorry about it now.
I tried to explain the night you left, but you
wouldn’t listen. You left Sara to manage your
class; you left Roy on the day he needed your
help. At least some good came out of that. He
proposed to Sara.”

“No!” I forgot the rest; I was delighted.

Joseph said wryly, ““He must have decided
Sara was a sensible woman. She wouldn’t go
dashing away just when he needed her most;
if something went wrong, she’d give him a
chance to explain.”

My eyes fell. “But he wouldn’t lie to her
either. Especially about ——”

He interrupted. ““Cammie, listen. Roy is an
American, and I am not. It’s because you’re
American that I did not dare to tell you the
truth. All that I did was moral, conventional
by my Muslim standards, but I was afraid that
you would do just what you did—panic and
run off—the minute you heard that I had
been married before; that I had a son; that
I continued to see the son and even his mother
whenever they were in my father’s house.”

H. shook his head at me. “‘All my brothers
have at least two wives. Now they have two
wives. One of them has been divorced five
times. And my grandfather had twenty-four
wives in fifty years. It is common—or was
common; you know enough about Islam to
know that.”

I nodded; I knew, but I still could not under-
stand.

“While I had one wife—properly, legally
divorced long before I met you.”

“But your father said ——”’

“My father doesn’t understand the new
laws; he doesn’t want to understand them.
Did he tell you that my mother threatened
suicide if I didn’t marry? Did he tell you how
much business he stood to gain if I married
that girl? So I gave in. I never should have.
I hoped Well, it was a disaster. I couldn’t
stand her six months. She was ignorant. She
was superstitious; she said I was not a real
Muslim because I refused to wear her charms.
And finally she began to put herbs and God
knows what else into my food. I warned her,
once, twice, three times. That was the end. I
called in the witnesses—oh, I made it quite an
occasion. | divorced her.

“Then she produced a son eight months
later. He is mine, no doubt; but she didn’t
protest when, after the usual three months, I
had the witnesses sign the final papers. She
signed them herself. Or put her thumbprint
on them. She couldn’t even write her name.

“That was why, when the boy arrived, we
were all so surprised. She claimed we were
still married. But the papers were final. I
showed them to my father. He didn’t want to
face the girl’s family with my refusal. That
was when we had the scene, the battle I told
you about. That was when I left... . From
then on, you know the rest. Most of my nights
out were to see the boy. For in the meantime,

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAI

berure you came, I found I loved him ve

much. The girl brought him to town often
they stayed with my mother. I visited hin
there. After you and I were married, and m4
mother met you, she finally realized why I ha
given up Zora, and Zora sensed this. Sht
threatened to make trouble, to bribe the wi
nesses, to do anything, for she was still cont
vinced that she was in the right.

“Zora’s brothers sent a petition to Rabat
begging that the divorce be set aside. Perhap
it might have been, in the old days. But thi
petition was refused. It has taken all this time
but the divorce is final. In four languages
effective four years ago, it is final.”

H. handed me a document. The marriag¢
certificate was still in my lap. The divorce wa
more impressive. I looked at it, and saw th¢
smudge of Zora’s thumbprint. How awful #
must have been for her. Was the system vo
for the man or the woman? Or the child?
thought suddenly of him.

“What is your son’s name?” I asked.

“Yussef,”’ he said simply. “It was all I had
to give him.”

“I know. Maybe someday —— You mus
keep on seeing him. He’ll need you.”

“Of course. I wish —— But you’re coming
back.” It was a command, not a question.

“Yes.” I gestured to the papers. ““We’ré
married, aren’t we?”

He reached out and took my hand gently
“That’s right. We’re married.”

His softness melted the last hard knot in m
heart. “I’m sorry, Joseph, I’m so sorry.”

“IT know. I keep trying to see how it hag
been for you, in a foreign country, so different
But you must see too”—he was almost pa
ternal; I was grateful he did not let me off
easily—“I am trying to be the bridge—it be
comes hard even for me.”

“I know! And I haven’t helped. No wonde
you couldn’t tell me.”

He smiled at the anguish in my voice. “It is
all over. We can go on from here. Both of us.’

I managed a little smile. It made him laugh,

“Such misery! Don’t look so sad.” He
pulled me up, boyish, teasing. He cradled m
head in his old way and whispered, ‘‘And
you’re grown-up now. You’re my wife. M
wife. And you’re going to stand by me, and
help me and’’—he tipped my chin—“‘not put!
up with any more lies.”

I laughed and rubbed my face against his’
chest, just making sure that he was there.

So that is how it happened. In the summer—
and Tangier is a lovely place to spend the}
summer—we rested. Roy and Sara were on
their honeymoon; Lady Mills was off in
England; the Ilsens had gone to Sweden.
Joseph’s book was finished and being printed,
Slowly I fitted into Joseph’s way of living. Late
hours, late meals, long talks, long visits with
relatives—for he had made peace with his
father, and the moment it happened I became
part of the clan. Now the women even invite
me into their rooms while the men eat, and I
join them, when Joseph lets me.

So it is September, and the summer ends,
and I must pack. Halti flutters around me;
Fatima watches from the armchair, for now
she comes to visit often, and I giggle with}
them, and take their advice, and agree with}
them that the Moroccan robes make perfect
maternity dresses. How will they look on a
Western campus? I wonder. For Joseph has
been invited to lecture for a year in America.
It is the very thing he will love doing, for he}
is a born teacher.

I come upon the old Spanish book I usell
when reading to Fatima and Si Krim. I a
it to Fatima. ‘“‘You may want to use it this}
year, in class.” For Roy has started a night}
school for adults. Sara will teach the women;
Joseph almost burst with pride when Fatima |
enrolled herself and her little maid.

““No”’—she refuses it—‘‘one language at a
time. I'll have enough to do.”

It is true. Zora has married again. A hus- }
band willing to live with that face and that |
fortune was not hard to find. So Fatima will |
take care of little Yussef temporarily. I know
what will happen, what is customary. When a
Muslim woman remarries, the father keeps the
children. But Joseph and I do not talk of this,
A year from now will be time. END

Printed in U.S.A,

‘

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YOUNG MARRIEDS
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LADIES’ “IO

ROBERT P. CROSSLEY

JOURNALITIES

BARBARA LUTHER

“Why don’t you write about my
grandmother?’’ Anne Love sug-
gested when her husband, Ep, com-
plained that he'd run out of Civil
War anecdotes for his book. Grand-
mother was Lida Dutton, who saved
the young ladies of Waterford, Vir-
ginia, from what seemed certain
spinsterhood after their men had
marched away to fight. (See ‘‘The
Beautiful and Anxious Maidens,”
page 74.) Waterford has changed
little since 1861; even the fence still
stands where Lida perched, when
on the lookout for Rebel soldiers.

When Lawrence Moser, who had
served one prison sentence for
murder, shot and killed his two
daughters and maimed four other
people in Stamford, Connecticut,
the crime made one resident of that
community ask a grave question:

~ How many men released from prison

are likely to kill again? ROBERT P.
CROSSLEY, former magazine editor,
offers some answers in ‘‘The Killer
Had Been Paroled”’ (see page 37).

Ever go balloon-hopping? We
hadn’t either, but after reading
“Moon Walk”’ (page 34) we're willing
to try. One drawback—enthusiastic
participants are in danger of being
literally carried. away, like one char-
acter in BARBARA LUTHER'S Story. We
won’t reveal any more of the plot,
except to just say that the United
States Navy, the Weather Bureau
and balloonist Malcolm Ross all
contributed technical assistance.
Ready? Hold tight! Up we go!

COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY JAY MAISEL

G7ZOFUEED

6 EAs aR IPC iE * Bak A €. KM AR

CONDENSED NOVEL COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE

THE EORBIDDENIGARDEN series st) stiaiiel ef sl cuieiiel ist icinie. cs! Ursula Curtiss 54
STORIES

MOONIWAIEK yrs). Aeureitve: ioe eqvey Sor spenihe: Gieateneathe mcm) oatcueedsys Barbara Luther 34

TIMES BAIRGIAIINY 54. ecactmita? Goucbeevce:cckn soleus MitoumoM wre) eal ee uss Camilla Bittle 52

THE BEAUTIFUL AND ANXIOUS MAIDENS. ......... Edmund G. Love 74
ARTICLES

NEW YORK CITY’S PRIVILEGED TEENAGERS ;
Public Affairs, Edited by Margaret Hickey

WAVE GUNN (] oX0) TRO) (HIER o pin 6G oo oO oOo moe oo oo Margaret Hickey ll
CAN YOU CHOOSE THE SEX OF YOUR CHILD?

Irving C. Fischer, M.D., as told to Joseph Kaye 12
PEAVEBRIDGERM c. 1. Nos. Bit., He eines reece es eee Charles and Peggy Solomon 16
SIE OVERV OU G. So cates a: te) chic Conan ia tel wi aateiten cooehen iene ric iets Doris Jacobow 18
CAN THIS MARRIAGE BE SAVED? .......... Dorothy Cameron Disney 26
MELLEIME DOCTOR. costes! a1 cechicnomeke Gineerialis Goodrich C. Schauffler, M.D. 28
DO CHILDREN EVER BENEFIT FROM DIVORCE?.... . Benjamin Spock, M.D. 30
Une ISMELIEIR? TeV) (ETELSINT TEYNIKKOVEIEID) 6 4 on 6 poo 6 oo Robert P. Crossley 37
HOW TO BE PERFECTLY NORMAL WITHOUT REALLY TRYING . Jane Goodsell 42
MAKIINGIMARRIAGE WORK. scr cmnr.non ic) «fee lene. Clifford R. Adams, Ph.D. 46
A CONVERSATION ON MANNERS............ Princess Lee Radziwill 50
SHAPING THE '60’s ... FORESHADOWING THE '70’s_ . (Gallup Survey No. 2) 66

HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY

TI WAN TISAST RAD mlONAE WEDDING? ss circiie semen ciel ci Jean Todd Freeman 68
THE MORRILLS' TWO-YEAR DECORATING PLAN ....... Cynthia Kellogg 2
AUNT LOUISE MAKES MARY LYNN'S WEDDING CAKE ..... Elaine Hanna 118
PIS eS hl RStmOlNNER] PARI. secaed ens, teetct veilra tance o. < Aeleiettir cones ve: ct 122
WHAT THE BRIDE SHOULD KNOW ABOUT BUYING Sidney Margolius 126

SPRINGIWARDROBE ONTAIBUDGET i) mc. ci eiiteic < ve) Nora O’Leary 134

GENERAL FEATURES

GURFREADERS WRITE US ivmamreecmciee co oreo ihap ron oh vetcs au oer ayer Peed, Sei. cig 4
THERESSPAUMANT INE ME THOUS Ess curwaicnir-lsil incre) tls <iicaid ey ts Harlan Miller 22
LEHANE AS OKA G Oscar tte, Cah ORR cce EL ies ay (ots go wiki 9c) Sat eperd Useheueci st rs nea. e Bie 38
ASIGAINYAWOMANIE-: oa 0. Lrecerstre al eiiene ee er rte oe, se Marcelene Cox 133

SSHOWRUSTHOW shOne Ea SEA UIT NEU) eneremce tate iciilomcl el cl italic) Sol ieumerus) (opucilteiel lone 56
SUITS ccs DIMINE clo ooo Boo oO 4p oo a Oo oo on Wilhela Cushman 58
SUITS FOR SPRING IN FLOWER COLORS!.......... Wilhela Cushman 60
FYNRISVIN Wile SRRING ono sto aoboooeco sooo oo dbe Nora O’Leary 62
MRS SJAMESIGAVIN sacs etnies momteMiciee) tsricrss) -Mcsieiie) fetiay Paors See eultant 64
HOW TO DRESS WELL ON PRACTICALLY NOTHING:

WARDROBE PERFECTIONS, INVESTMENT NO.1 .......... Bet Hart 112
SPRINGIWARDROBETONIAGBUD GEM. sn. ceniomsiiciie tei citcnteneuen yt Nora O'Leary 134
FOOD
VOUNG HOSTIESSES ACROSS/AMERICA) ci aisicmenter tel te) fen sttel ey cree Liane Waite 76
LINNEY THO) THUGS TN IME Go Gb 6d Bo ob Od oOo oo Od 6 Ome oo 8 78
AUNT LOUISE MAKES MARY LYNN'S WEDDING CAKE ..... Elaine Hanna 118
BRIDES TAUIRS TE OIININEREIPINMIAG 6 og oop GH 6 oouU do oa oS Oo bo Beno 122

INTERIOR DECORATION

THE MORRILLS’ TWO-YEAR DECORATING PLAN ........ Cynthia Kellogg 72
POEMS

/\SOYNINIELP VON c ob ab BG ome bo toe os 6 Mae Yingling Cotterman 91

SONNEMS IB ROM ialitd Eset reu cpm iitey oti -ii<-ate cine) cot CnroitCTie Nancy C. Perry 96

THEME SONG FOR FUNNY VALENTINES ......... Elizabeth McFarland 106

CMERRY VALENTINE: DARLING!) 3). = sales aie) - one Elizabeth Graham 116

MOTHERSSIFATHIERS! cy ame) ck ier tates ste sc mn ecm mc) eye Barbara A. Jones 140

Ch&nging Your Address?
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Printed in U.S.A.

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ESDal at OFR: S

FEBRUARY, 1962

VOL. LXXIX NO. 2

EXECUTIVE EDITOR:
Mary Bass

MANAGING EDITOR:

Curtiss Anderson

ART DIRECTOR:

Tom Heck

ASSOCIATE EDITORS:

Peter Briggs

William McCleery
Mary Lea Page
Wilhela Cushman
William E. Fink
Louella G. Shouer
Margaret Davidson
Nora O’Leary

Bet Hart

Berenice Connor

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS:

Richard Pratt

Laura Lou Brookman
Dawn Crowell Ney
Margaret Hickey
Barbara Benson

EDITORIAL ASSOCIATES:

John Werner

Ruth Mary Packard
Ruth Shapley Matthews
Joseph Di Pietro
Elizabeth Goetsch
Joyce Posson

Dorothy Anne Robinson
Liane Waite

Conrad Brown

Anne Fuller

Jim Abel

ASSISTANT EDITORS:

Victoria Harris

Alice Kastberg
Dorothy Markinko
Jean Anderson
Grant Harris

Ann Blackmar

Lee Stowell Cullen
Elaine Ward-Hanna
Carole O’Brien Gaffron
Hazel Owen

Miki Mahoney
Pamela Chamberlain

EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS:

Helen Olchvary
Mary Jane Engel
Kathleen M. Snead
Natalie Schram
Julie Ditchy Crum
Lee Pettee

Bette Holman
Eugenie Thayer
Betty Felton

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QUR
READERS

WILL MEN DISAPPEAR?

Dear kditors: How to control the sex
of human offspring is a likely discovery
m the not-too-distant future. [See page
12 of this issue.] The problem is fully
understood; it is only a question of
biological engineering, so to speak.
Sooner or later parents will be able to
produce males or females at will. What
will follow?

Parents everywhere may favor having
a boy first and probab ly more boys chari
girls, resulting in a heavily overloaded
male population! Too many males would
obviously be even more of a nuisance
than males are at present. Reaction
might then swing the trend the other
way.

We have only to look at insect socie-
ties, where sex control does operate, to
see what could happen. Among insects
the male sex is virtually SED ORES and
day-to-day work, as well as reproduc-
tion, is conducted mainly by the fe-
males. Bees produce drones only as
necessary and kill them off when food
runs low. Other kinds of insects produce
males for emergency use only.

Montreal, Canada N. J. BeRRILL

@ For women, the emergency is per-
manent.— ED.

KEEP SMOKING

Dear Editors: As a steady smoker who
has never tried to quit, and married to a
steady smoker, I was fascinated by the
article “Who Said We Couldn’t Stop
Smoking?” I smoke twenty to thirty

cigarettes a day, and | have never been

Hospitalized except to have three chil-
dren, who do not seem to have suffered
from my smoking while bearing them.
Last winter | nade a sinus infection and
was told by my doctor not to smoke.
When I laughed, he said, “Only neu-
rotics smoke.”

We do try to discourage our six-
teen-year-old daughter from the tobacco
habit, by using ahe examples of her
father’s struggles against it and the ex-
pense. To me, the latter is tobacco’s evil.
I know I must die sometime, but unless
one has a formal death sentence from the
“evils of tobacco” hanging over one’s
head, I say forget it. Remember the fifty-
megaton bomb, and keep smoking!

Nancy ALLEN
Providence, Rhode Island

NO RIGHTS FOR NONSMOKERS?

Dear Editors: The most ignored person
today is the nonsmoker. In this so-
called civilization, the nonsmoker is
forced to live in clouds of smoke pouring
from the mouths of human chimneys.
The smoker leaves his odor wherever he
goes. If he is on the street, he drops the

LADIES’ HOME JOURN

‘
f
‘

butt on the public sidewalk; if in the
house, he puts it in an ashtray which
someone must clean up; if he smokes in
bed, he endangers his life and the lives
of others. Auto accidents often result
from smoking or lighting a cigarette
while driving. The Connecticut Highway
Safety Chamiscon has a sign which
reads: “Would you give your life for a
cigarette?” And many a smoker has
started fires in national forests by drop:
ping a lighted match or cigarette. i
Even osnals smell fie stale ciga-
rette smoke. A patient suffering with a
respiratory ailment can’t be sick without
a cigarette pack on his bedside table; hi
nonsmoking roommate may suffer moge}
but what of that? a}
Exstz H. Hopeson
Stratford, Connecticut

EFFICIENT HOUSEKEEPING
Dear Journal: My third baby, Mark

has had severe diarrhea, milk allerg

(with twelve different formulas), three
cases of flu, bronchitis, an almost con-+4
tinuous infection in both ears, an

chicken pox! Yet, strangely enough, I’m
not bogged down with fatigue as I was)
when my two other children were babies.

Nor do I continuously slave over
diapers and formula. And even more)
strangely, I’ve had lots of time to cuddle}
and play with Mark, as well as to enjoy)
the rest of my family.

Where has all this extra time come
from? Not from having less work to do,/
certainly!

I am fresh at the end of the day and
have extra time for my own interests be-/
cause I have developed new, fast ways of |
doing routine chores. I make formula in!
seven to ten minutes, fold several days’)
diapers in three minutes, prepare bottle
and solid foods for each meal in two)
minutes and dress baby to go out in one’
minute. I eliminate three fourths of the’
day’s fatigue by working out efficient’
methods of sitting down while diapering,
dressing and bathing the baby, making”
formula, bathing the other children,’
ironing, cooking, baking, and washing
and setting my hair.

My husband, who works for a space)
technological-research laboratory, is a
specialist in “human engineering.” I
took a few tips from him, and added
determination, experience and a few)
new products.

Marjorie MurFin
Los Angeles, California |

WHO’S AN “OLD MAID”?

Dear Editors: Don’t you think the con-
tributions made to society by unmarried
professional women should be more fre-
quently recognized? The great majority,

of women who graduate from college are |

reluctant to marry men with less educa- |
tion, and the probability of finding a
mate seems to decrease in direct propor-
tion to the amount of higher education a,
woman has. Fy

Society has chosen to make fun of |
“the old maid,” especially “the old3 |
maid schoolteacher.” Why? They have |
had enough gumption to go out into the |
world and use their brains. It could be |
that many of them had the intelligence
not to marry when fiven a chance—a |
chance that some other gal jumped at —
(perhaps to her regret).

An “Oxp-MAtp SCHOOLTEACHER
San Jose, California av Twenty-Four

@ Single women are essential, especially
to single men; it’s a rare and special per-
son who is “old” at twenty-four.—ED.

,
|

-EBRUARY, 1962

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

These teenagers don’t have time to be bored. They are working

for the city’s sick and discouraged, and earning love and respect.

PUB LC A Aen: S
EDT RED Br
MAR GARE [ oA CO ABY

Pretty blond Susan wore sweaters one
size too small and emerald eye shadow
to school. The summer she became
fourteen, she was obviously too
sophisticated for girls’ camp and too
young for a paying job. Her mother, a
store executive, fretted about her at-
tractive daughter’s being alone in an
empty house all summer. Boys were
descending on their new brick home
in Queens, Long Island, in swarms; at
night the phone rang so often for
Susan that her father began to wish
for a silencer.

That was four summers ago. Susan
spent her vacation that year and ev-
ery summer since at a city hospital as
a junior Red Cross volunteer. Today
she is a poised high-school senior who
wears little makeup and conservative
clothes and who has, in her own
words, acquired ‘‘a basic education in what’s important”’ in hos-
pital wards. She has also decided on a career: medical secretary in
the same city hospital where she has served five full days a week for
four summers without pay.

To get to the hospital from her home by bus and train takes
Susan over an hour each way. “I can’t explain how much the hos-
pital means to me,” she says. “I know everybody; I’m a member of
the team; it’s like a second home.” She adds, “It’s changed my
viewpoint. The things I used to complain about all the time—like
not having enough pretty new clothes, or maybe waking up with
a headache the day of a big exam—I don’t even think about any-
more, they’re so unimportant.”’

“We feel that Susan’s volunteer work at the hospital marked a
turning point in her life,” says a hospital-staff member. “‘She came
here four years ago looking and acting like a flashy, flirty kid. But
with each summer she’s become more dedicated and dependable.
Now she’s indispensable, both to the patients, who love her, and the
staff. We hope she’ll come back after graduation and make this
her career.”’

Until recent years, New York City hospitals refused to accept
volunteers under eighteen, believing that young teenagers would
be just a nuisance. And the impact of birth and death and dis-
figuring diseases would be too shattering to people of tender years,
it was felt.

Then in the summer of 1956, when the Red Cross Bloodmobile
program in New York City was in a state of imminent collapse for
lack of adult volunteers, a group of high-schoolers was recruited to
help. When these youngsters not only did not faint at the sight of
blood, but proved less squeamish than their elders, the Red Cross
began to wonder why they couldn’t do a raft of nonmedical tasks in

NEW YORK GIY'S

PRIVILEGED
TEENAGEAD

s-*

AL FRANCEKEVICH

hospitals. Each year the Red Cross
is having a harder time finding adults |
for daytime volunteer work, and all
the large city and voluntary hospitals |
are especially short-handed during |
the summer months, the paid
staff take vacations.
In 1957 Dr. Fred McLaughlin, now
Director of Public Education Associa-
tions of New York City, managed to
persuade officials to let an experi-
mental group of young teenagers help 4
out in a big city hospital. The Junior
Red Cross placed spot announce-
ments on disc-jockey shows asking t
for students willing to give at least
one full day’s work a week at Metro- |
politan Hospital during the two bs
summer months. Within an hour after i
the first appeal, 300 phone calls
swamped the Red Cross switchboard.
This was in marked contrast to previous announcements asking for
adult volunteers. Many of these calls were from parents eager to
enroll their idle high-schoolers. 7,
That summer 45 students gave 3000 volunteer hours to Metro-
politan Hospital. At least 2000 patients come to the clinics there -
daily, and the juniors “worked madly,” according to the director of =
volunteers, “‘and under pressure, even prepared patients for ex-
aminations.”” The youngsters became so well integrated into the
hospital that in August the superintendent reminded his staff that
all these eager new helpers were students who would soon be leaving
to go back to high school.
“The kids were willing, enthusiastic, and they never ran down,”’
says Dr. McLaughlin. ‘“The patients kept thanking them and so did
the doctors and nurses. They felt needed and appreciated. Many
came from poor families and made a real sacrifice in not working

for pay, but the work made them feel privileged. ‘It was an experi- 4 ;
ence you couldn’t buy with money,’ they said.”’ ‘

In the past five summers, more than 5000 New York City ‘“‘Volun- j
teens” have given from two to five days a week of work in nonprofit 4

hospitals. Another 4000 youngsters have helped without pay in
city playgrounds, day-care centers, homes for the aged, and have
worked at Red Cross chapters and with the Bloodmobiles. There are
other excellent volunteer programs for teenagers throughout the
country, but New York’s is probably the biggest and most ambitious.

Comments the present director of New York City’s youthful Red
Cross, Helen Avett, ‘“We feel that we’re unique in that we give all
the junior volunteers free Red Cross uniforms. Also, we provide
carfare to and from jobs when needed. This means that kids who
couldn’t possibly afford nine dollars for a uniform, or sixty or ninety |
cents a day for transportation, can CONTINUED ON PAGE 1] .

fF UARY, 1962

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volunteer. We get students from exclusive private schools
and from slum areas. You can’t tell them apart when
they’re dressed in identical uniforms with the same Red
Cross service symbol.”

During a recent summer, 19 young boys and girls from
a street-gang area in Brooklyn showed up at the Red
Cross chapter to volunteer for hospital service. “They
looked like a bunch of hoods—duck-tail hair, leather
jackets, blue jeans and all,” says a Red Cross worker.
“One of our adult volunteers who interviewed them said,
‘But look at their sloppy sandals! And their fingernails
aren’t clean! Can you imagine them working in a hospi-
tal?’” Another concern was the smart-alecky attitude of
the kids who seemed to be signing up purely “for kicks.”

With some misgivings, the Red Cross accepted the
group. New York City requires working papers and
health examinations for all paid and voluntary workers
fourteen and older; getting through the official red tape
is time-consuming and often frustrating. However, all 19
kids went through all the necessary channels and then
were given the usual five-hour orientation course for hos-
pital work, with particular emphasis on personal cleanli-
ness. The girls with their long flying hair and black tights
were then handed crisp blue-and-white Red Cross uni-
forms with neat little nurses’ caps; the boys received tai-
lored gray cotton Red Cross jackets.

“The minute they put on their uniforms, they seemed
to stand and walk straighter,” commented a Red Cross

staffer. “They chopped off their hair and cleaned their

fingernails. By the end of the summer, only one of the
nineteen had dropped out. The remaining eighteen, look-
ing spick-and-span, were still working in the same hospi-
tal and doing a whale of a job.”

A Queens boy who used to belong to the notorious
street gang called the Saxons not only worked at Bird S.
Coler Hospital all last summer, but is continuing this
winter three nights a week and all day Saturday. As he
walks through Coler’s vast corridors patients everywhere
call George by name and smile and joke with him.

“Some patients enjoy feeling helpless, and others re-
bel, and some just wanna give up. You gotta figger out
each guy and how to get him to help himself,” explains
George, a slight, undersized boy with a stoop and prema-
turely wise, sad eyes.

“Say, George,” calls out a diabetic patient with both
legs amputated but with a sound pair of arms, “give mea
push to the canteen, will you?”

“Push yourself, Sam,’ George replies good-naturedly,
“you gained five pounds last month.”

A minute later George notices an arthritis patient
having trouble holding and lighting a cigarette. “How
about a game of pinochle?”’ he suggests, with a casual
glance at the patient’s crippled fingers.

For another patient, a college graduate, George has a
page of problems of high-school math. “Glad to help
you out!” says the patient, happily accepting George’s
homework.

“I got the answers worked out by myself already,”
explained George, a high-school junior who was “sent
up” for throwing a phone book at his school principal,
“but it makes him feel good. Patients need to feel use-
ful too.”

The Saxon gang still hangs around George and ribs
him as he waits patiently for a bus to take him from his

‘NEW YORK CITY'S

PRIVILEGED
TEENAGERS

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 6

crowded home to his volunteer work, but George ig-
nores them. “I’m so happy here!”’ he tells the Coler Hos-
pital staff. Soon he will go into the services to work for a
college education; then he plans to return to Coler Hos-
pital as a recreation worker.

Until a few years ago, Bird S. Coler Hospital and
Home, one of the nation’s largest geriatrics centers, had
no recreation program for blind patients. Unable to
watch movies, or read, or watch TV, they sat in their
chairs “like lumps of dough.”’ Now, thanks to the junior
volunteers, the blind patients are taken on walks, have
arts and crafts and bingo parties; they even bowl. A to-
tally blind patient who had just arrived at Coler was led
by a junior volunteer to a group of laughing, talking
men and women.

“They can enjoy themselves,” remarked the patient
bitterly. “But J can’t see.”

Replied the junior volunteer gently, ““None of them
can see.”

Crippled patients are wheeled by junior volunteers
into bleacher seats at the Yankee Stadium, over curbing
in Greenwich Village to art shows, up steamer ramps for
day trips to Rye Beach. After the summer passes, many
patients rarely breathe fresh air or see the outdoors until
the juniors return the following July. All winter long
they wait impatiently for the high-schoolers’ return.
““Where are the kids?”’ they ask when the first warm
spring breeze blows across their island from Manhattan.
“We want the kids!””

“Just the sight of those youngsters with their fresh
young faces and smiles cheers everybody up,” says a
hospital employee. ““And you should see how the pa-
tients’ faces glow when they watch those kids dance!”

Although most adults find hospitals depressing places,
the junior volunteers admit to “feeling a little strange”
the first day only. After that, they accept the place, even
the smells. Says the director of volunteers at Roosevelt
Hospital:

“A young teenager doesn’t react to tragedy the way an
adult does because it’s something he’s never personally
experienced. When he sees a crippled child, or some-
one old and blind, he doesn’t put himself in their
shoes. He doesn’t identify with the patient. I’ve seen a
fifteen-year-old girl walk over to a deformed infant and
pick him up in the most natural, loving way you can
imagine. As far as she’s concerned, it’s simply a child in
need of love, and she responds wholeheartedly, without
false sentimentality or pity.”

Not all hospital work involves direct patient care.
Some boys run errands, carry supplies from one end of
the hospital to the other, work in the pharmacy or lab-
oratories or X-ray rooms. “Even if they’re just counting

a hundred pills into each bottle, they know they’re re-
leasing a paid employee for more pressing jobs,” re-
marks a hospital superintendent.

In one city hospital, boys and girls catalogued a whole
medical library which had been stored in crates for years;
at Bellevue, a backlog of three months’ medical records
were properly filed. Girls help with typing and answering
the telephone. They sort and count linen, arrange flow-
ers, fill water glasses and make unoccupied beds. Two
girls brought from home their manicuring equipment
and cleaned and polished a wardful of neglected nails.
They also gave shampoos.

Many girls finish the summer convinced that nursing
is the most rewarding profession in the world; a few
conclude the work is not for them—a valuable discovery.
Some then plan to become dietitians, or lab technicians,
or therapists, all fields which have suffered disastrous
shortages. Boys, too, penetrate behind the superficial
“glamour” of a hospital to discover whether or not they
would enjoy a medical career.

An artist’s daughter felt the most important thing she
learned was human psychology (she wants to be a writer).
A teenager whose family insisted she quit her volunteer
job to travel with them to Paris and Rome wrote back
that she missed “‘the aroma of love, generosity and
warmth” at Roosevelt Hospital.

“If you won’t try to help yourself, Rosie, then I won’t!”’
snaps a volunteer turning away from an ancient Negro
woman who refuses to push the wheel of her chair with
her withered hand. Then a moment later, as the woman
painfully tries to propel herself for the first time, the
teenager from Park Avenue throws her arms around the
colored woman’s neck and cries, “Oh, Rosie, I knew you
could!”

Most New York hospitals now specify fifteen as the
minimum age for junior volunteers. However, hundreds
of fourteen-year-old boys and girls are needed to help
run the free city playgrounds. They are given Red Cross
uniforms and carfare when needed and assist teachers
with swimming, arts and crafts, sports and folk dancing.
“We couldn’t take care of a fraction of the kids we do
without the juniors’ help,” says a teacher in charge of a
summer playground with a daily attendance of 350. “In
working with children, the juniors develop leadership
qualities, stability and the ability not to be rattled by the
unexpected. Many of them definitely decide on a career
in teaching.”

Junior volunteers are recruited through the schools
early in spring. A record of the hours each volunteer
gives and an evaluation of his job performance become a
permanent part of his school record, and have often
proved helpful in finding paid jobs later or getting into
college.

‘Kids yearn to participate in real-life experiences, and
if constructive avenues of effort aren’t offered to them
theyll turn to destructive ones,” believes Dr. McLaugh-
lin. “Our experience with New York City teenagers has
proved that kids are starved for interesting, essential
work. In volunteer jobs they quickly learn that money
isn’t as important as they once thought and that giving
money to charity is never as valuable as giving oneself.
It’s time we stopped denying our teenagers the chance to
learn civic responsibilities the only way possible—by
shouldering some.”

aside the world’s pain. They call us—the hungry, the

sick, the homeless, the lonely ones. The need to an-
swer—not with a coin or kind word, but with our time,
our talent, our sympathy—cannot, for many of us,
be ignored.

“What can J do to help?” we ask. With so many de-
mands on time and energy by home and children, or by
our work and friends, it is not an easy question to answer.
For more than a century the Red Cross has been finding
new and practical ways to make personal service a part
of our daily lives, not only to our neighbors, but to those
in need all over the world. It is on the people who accept
this obligation—its volunteer armies of good will who
work around the globe to bridge differences and misun-
derstanding—the Red Cross bases its hope for peace.

And the Red Cross pattern actually works. E.M.
Forster once wrote: ““Not by becoming better, but by
ordering and distributing his native goodness, will man
shut up Force into its box, and so gain time to explore
the universe and to set his mark on it worthily.”” The
Red Cross provides us with the means to “organize our
own goodness.” If you'd like to experience the enormous
satisfaction, the happiness of being a part of it, pick up

. your telephone or make a quick trip to a nearby Red
Cross chapter. You will find volunteer workers, your
friends and neighbors, have discovered the rewards of
‘putting more into life than I take out.”’ as one said.

T: as we may, our troubled hearts will not let us push

WHAT CAN

T0 HELP?

By MARGARET HICKEY

Service by Red Cross volunteers is as wide as the
whole world and as varied. Thousands gave shelter and
food to over 206,000 refugees fleeing the wild forces of
recent Hurricane Carla. Last year, 16,600 workers, in
173 Veterans Administration hospitals, gave over 2,000,-
000 hours of service—no measurement, really, of the
comfort, hope and sympathy they dispensed. Since July,
1960, the League of Red Cross Societies and the Interna-
tional Committee of the Red Cross have recruited medi-
cal teams, including surgeons. physicians and nurses,
from 22 countries to work in the turbulent Congo. Other
Red Cross societies, including our own, have helped
with medical supplies, clothing, and cash donations to-
taling more than $1,000,000.

The opportunity the Red Cross offers to turn our con-
cern into practical tasks is unlimited. There is a place for
each of us. Mrs. Ryland Thomas serves as a Gray Lady
at the Muskogee Veterans Administration Hospital;
that she makes her rounds on the crutches she has used
since a leg amputation seven years ago only enhances
her infectious gaiety. Clyde N. Kirm Jr., a blind student
at John Carroll University, works two days weekly in the
Cleveland blood-donor center. At Jacksonville, Florida,
young volunteers serve each year in the lifesaving corps
on beach duty. During the season they save from 50 to
75 drowning persons and handle hundreds of first-aid
emergencies.

The Journal this month features one of the new pro-
grams planned to help youth develop values which will
guide them throughout their lives. The acceptance of
discipline and drudgery in order to help others is a diffi-
cult but necessary lesson of leadership. During another
outstanding “summer of service’ at the Golden Gate
Chapter in San Francisco, 65,219 hours were contributed
by 946 high-school students; because of their efforts,
35,000 children learned to swim.

Millions of volunteers in this country and abroad en-
rich their own lives, and by acts and deeds of love and
faith deepen the meaning of mankind’s prayer for peace
and understanding. Each of them renews his own confi-
dence in a world for which there are help and hope if
only enough people serve and share. END

CAN YOU CHOOSE THE SEX OF YOUR CHILD 2h

The answer may soon be a firm “Yes,” thanks
to some new research into a question that is as old
as man and love and marriage.

We have known for some time that sperm (which,
together with the egg released by the woman dur-
ing ovulation, creates life) is of different sizes and
shapes. But it was not easy to assess the meaning of
the knowledge until Dr. Landrum B. Shettles, of
the Columbia University College of Physicians and
Surgeons, discovered a new method of preparing
sperm slides for microscopic study. His method
defined the difference with startling new clarity
and detail. He hoped to confirm that what the dif-
ference meant was that one type of sperm was male
and the other female, and that there was some-
thing—something also definable—that regulated
the way in which the sperm met with the egg to
create either a girl or a boy baby.

Dr. Shettles had heard of my work in the field of
artificial insemination, as well as the work of a col-
league, Dr. Sophia J. Kleegman, clinical professor
of obstetrics and gynecology, New York University
School of Medicine. He phoned me to say, ‘Dr.
Fischer, Dr. Kleegman reports a majority of male
births among the patients she treats. Have you
had the same experience ?”’

I had to tell him that I had not. Of the
babies conceived through artificial insemination I
had delivered, more had been girls.

He was disappointed at the discrepancy in the
results until I told him that Dr. Kleegman and I
used different methods in our work. I had treated
the wife three times—just before ovulation, at the
time of ovulation, and a little after that time—to
make reasonably sure that fertilization would re-
sult. Dr. Kleegman inseminated only once—on the
day determined by tests (temperature registration
and vaginal smears) to be the actual time when the
egg was in place for fertilization. Encouraged, Dr.
Shettles went back to the study which now holds
forth the brightest hope so far of determining the
sex of a child before the child is conceived.

The concept can be simply stated this way: The
man determines the sex of the child. His semen
contains both male and female sperm. The male
sperm is faster-moving but has a shorter life. The
female sperm moves more slowly but lives longer.
If intercourse between husband and wife takes
place some time before the egg in the wife is ready,
the male sperm, being forced to take a longer time
to reach the egg, will die. The sturdier female
sperm will live, take over, and produce a baby girl.

So the theory is that if intercourse occurs at
the time the egg is in position for fertiliza-
tion, the male sperm, traveling faster than the
female, will arrive first and a boy will be conceived.

By DR. IRVING C. FISCHER,
ASSISTANT PROFESSOR, NEW YORK MEDICAL COLLEGE,
AS TOLD TO JOSEPH KAYE

It seems that this is why Dr. Kleegman, in-
seminating at the time clinically determined as
most favorable, has brought about so many more
boys than girls. This might have appeared acci-
dental before Dr. Shettles’s work. Now we can
speculate why it happens.

Through clinical observation, Dr. Kleegman
had long ago noticed the phenomenon that certain
circumstances produced boy babies while others
produced girls. In 1953 she made a careful study
of her inseminations. The result: of 79 pregnancies
so achieved, three boys were born for every one
girl.

Dr. Kleegman is so convinced of the possibility
of boy births if intercourse (or insemination) is
effected at the proper time that she has asserted
definitely: “If insemination is done at the time of
ovulation, there will be predominantly boys; if it is
done two days before ovulation, there will be pre-
dominantly girls.’”” Her own daughter, now twenty,
was a “planned birth.”

She tells of another doctor who, a year ago,
planned ten births and got eight desired results,
including his own son. A Boston physician achieved
twelve out of fourteen planned births. One of Dr.
Kleegman’s own patients, a woman who had three
sons, wanted a girl. A girl was planned, and was
born.

To couples wishing to choose the sex of their
children Dr. Kleegman is willing to say: “I feel
that there are sufficient results to justify asking
your doctor to determine the time of the wife’s
ovulation, and then to effect one ‘exposure’ during
the menstrual cycle.’ If there is intercourse, or
insemination, just once during the cycle (which
would avoid the interference of unplanned im-
pregnations) then the hope of giving birth to a
child of the desired sex could well be realized.

What Dr. Kleegman says is in agreement with
the beliefs of other doctors who are influenced by
the latest researches. Present observation and
clinical records do sustain the expectation that
probably in the near future parents will be able to
determine the sex of their children.

This can lead to some surprising changes in our
lives. Today there are more females than males,
which gives men an advantage in the marriage mar-
ket, and causes emotional strain in women con-
cerned with finding husbands. But if more boys
were born—and it is quite probable that parents
do wish for more boys than girls—this situation
would be altered.

Some medical men consider that emotional
strain causes changes in the alkaline or acid con-
tent of the blood. It is believed that if a woman
has more alkalinity, there is greater chance of her

having boys; and if there is more acidity, she ma’
conceive girls. Emotional disturbances may caus
the chemical change that would increase acidity.

It may not be too farfetched to believe that th
worry induced in a girl searching for a husbang¢
may be strong enough to affect her sexual rea
tions. Medical authorities state that only about 28
percent of women have an orgasm during inter
course. Some doctors believe that orgasm causeg
an additional alkaline content in the vagina of thd
woman and thus favors the conception of boys.

Younger wives may tend to have boy babies
One survey of 8000 births showed many more boys
than girls. Women approximately 15 years old had
163 boys to 100 girls; women about 20 had 120
boys to 100 girls; 30-year-old women had 112 boys
to 100 girls; and women of 40 had 91 boys to
100 girls

Predetermination of sex has always fascinated
mankind. At various times over the centuries,
claims have been made that if couples followed cer-
tain procedures they would be sure to have a child
of the sex they wanted. It was once suggested that
if the love of a man and a woman were ardent
enough, a boy would result from their union, while |
if the passion were less great a girl would be born. | |
Others claimed that if the prospective mother :
simply wished hard enough she would bear a child 1
of the sex she longed for. I

Legends, emotions, sexual response and alkaline |
content all have their place in the study of births, }})
but it is the latest discoveries concerning the char- |
acteristics of the male and female sperm, and the
speed at which each travels through the cervix,
that provide the definite promise that predeter-
mination of sex is now a close possibility.

Medical men are not given to imaginative specu- }},
lation except in a strictly scientific sense, but I }}
hope to be forgiven if I mention an incident that |

f
|

\
(
1
{
4

occurred recently. |

At a meeting in Cincinnati of the American So- |
ciety for the Study of Sterility the subject of sex 4
predetermination was discussed. One of the at-
tending doctors said jokingly, “The Shah of Iran
should be informed of these new developments in !
sperm study.” Another replied, “Perhaps he al- |
ready knows.” It so happened that at this meeting
there was a doctor who was a medical adviser to
the shah. So it may not be too farfetched to think
that the son who was finally born to the king could
have been the result of predetermination.

Not all medical opinion is in agreement on this
theory of predetermining the sex of your child. Some
experts say “yes,” some ‘‘still inconclusive.’ All find
it interesting. The Journal feels readers will agree.

}
|
|

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BRIDGE

By CHARLES AND PEGGY
SOLOMON

WORLD’S LEADING
HUSBAND-AND-WIFE TEAM

NORTH

@K85

vy Ad

@AKQ65

& 853
WEST KAST
@ OJ 62 @ A109
¥ O82 vy 104

92 @J74

aca & 107642

SOUTH

& 743

¥ KIT7653

@ 1083

& A

East and West vulnerable
North dealer
The bidding:

NORTH EAST SOUTH WEST

1 Diamond — Pass | Heart Pass
2 Diamonds Pass 2 Hearts Pass
3 Hearts Pass 1 Hearts Pass
Pass Pass

West opens the & K

“But I was trying to make six,
honey,” the man said, fleeing our
table with his irate spouse hot on his
heels. “If I'd made six, I would have
been a hero.”

“Tf... if,” she cried. “Jf you could
play bridge, I wouldn’t be aggravated
like this. You refused to play the
hand safe and make five like the rest
of the field. You had to play it wide
open, try for a top and wind up with
a bottom. No wonder we never get
anywhere in this game.”’

When they finally moved away,
Peggy and I quickly reviewed the
hand. We had registered a big score
because the poor guy let the dan-
gerous hand (West) get into the lead.
She made the shift that defeated
a game contract just when declarer
was lamenting the fact he wasn’t in
slam!

First, a word about the bidding. It
was concise. The logical four-heart
contract was reached in proper se-
quence. South’s rebid of two hearts
wasn’t a sign of weakness. It indi-
cated definite values, although not
enough to warrant a jump rebid.
North, with well over a minimum
opening, was well within herself in

raising hearts to three, and South
properly carried on to game.

But South didn’t duplicate his bid-
ding skill in the play of the paste-
boards. Peggy led the club king.
(The spade queen would have settled
South’s hash at once, but who could
know that?) South won with his
singleton ace and decided to tackle
trumps. He saw that if he could bring
in that suit without losing a trick, he
could make six hearts, provided dia-
monds broke 3-2—a reasonable ex-
pectation. He would pitch two spades
from his own hand on dummy’s long
diamonds and merely give up a spade
at the end. This line of attack back-
fired on South and produced a ter-
rible result, helped us win the tourna-
ment and put his wife on the warpath.
Such is bridge!

After entering dummy with the
trump ace, declarer returned the
nine. I had nothing left but the ten,
and South finessed with the jack. This
lost to Peggy’s queen. She quickly
shifted to her other queen—the spade.
Now South reddened, seeing the error
of his ways, but alas, too late. Before
he could catch his breath, we had rat-
tled off three spade tricks and he was
down.

There was a simple way in which
South could have guaranteed his
contract plus an overtrick. We saw it,
and so did his wife. All he saw was the
rising storm, and he wisely fled her
wrath. She has probably made him
see the light by now, but who can tell
when it will happen again? Bridge
needs more understanding than this.
It’s OK to point out the proper line
of play, but please be kind.

After winning the club ace, all
South has to do is to lead a small
heart and put in dummy’s nine!
This safety play throws East into the
lead with his ten, but he cannot
make a damaging return. The dum-
my’s spade king is protected against
a lead in that suit from the East hand.
The normal return at this point
would be a club. South would ruff,
pull the remaining trumps and dis-
card two spades on dummy’s good
diamonds. So, unless the trump suit is
banked in one hand against declarer,
this is how to play it.

“You made a nice shift to the
spade queen,” I admitted as the next
pair of opponents came to our table.
“But it was obvious. We can’t take
credit for that one.”

“No, we can’t,” Peggy said. “Es-
pecially since I made the play, not
you.”

See, we always agree!

The Solomon System of point count
for honor cards is: ace, 4; king, 3;
queen, 2; jack, 1; two tens, 1. A single-
ton king, 2; a singleton queen, 1. (Do
not count tens in an original no-trump
or for evaluating a slam.) Generally,
a holding of 13 points is required for
an opening bid.

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DEAR JOURNAL:

Here is a valentine for you. This is the best time to
say, “IT love you!’ You have always been mine. You
were a part of my childhood and I remember you
along with my feather bed, licorice buttons, and
rides to school on Mr. Potter’s horse-drawn sled.
Mamma went away, but I can still hear her say,
‘Don’t forget to bring me the new Ladies’ Home
Journal.’ (We never subscribed. We liked to dis-
cover your fresh face ona shelf.) You were good
company when! had measles. You becameaguidein
my life. You were pasted in school notebooks and
later you went to war with me. When I was home-
sick, | curled up in my top bunk with your pages.

My homes haye always been attractive and special—
the basement apartment and the one-room cot-
tage with the outdoor bath (I used red tile, a brown
gingham curtain, and a bottle of Chanel No. 5 on
a shelf.) You gave me suggestions and helped me
to develop a fierce determination to brighten my
corners. | introduced our children to your ‘*Watch-
bird.’ I tried to hold on to the skeleton of a mar-
riage because Dorothy Thompson gave me strength
and insight. You were a friend when I failed and
an extra pair of eyes when I needed to look ahead.

Last summer we had to move far away. We had to
sell our first ‘Sreal’? home. (I will never again give
my total heart to a bit of earth or an oak tree.) You
traveled with me on the train to a new beginning.
You inspired me to create a home so lovely that
the neighbors peeked through their curtains and
brought me summer flowers for a welcome. A

rented house can be beautiful—we rent our very
lives. Antique mansions beneath your cover made
me vow, “I will take this old house and turn it into
‘elegance on a budget.’”’ We did it! It is filled with
surprises. A home in waltz tempo—candles, third-
hand Persian carpets, marbleremnantsand sewing-
machine legs turned into precious tables. A bust of
Chopin, ancient bound Harpers from local thrift
shops. Oil paintings from my easel, velvet cushions.
We adopted our treasure chests and chairs from
the Salvation Army. A background of Beethoven
and Mozart from a fifteen-dollar used FM set. This
house is a jewel box. Three trees stand guard in a
planter by the black door with a golden lyre
knocker from the ten-cent store. You sent me to
work with the inspiration to build and to become
a good renter of the world.

Your diets worked. My blouse-and-skirt wardrobe
is especially for me. You have failed in one impor-
tantarea. I have never felt confident in any kitchen.
(We clipped the chicken-Kiey recipe so there is
hope.) I made homemade crystal chandeliers—
cakes and cookies frighten me!

I have never written to a “‘stranger’’—an institu-
tion; no slogans, no contests!

Lincoln’s birthday and Valentine’s Day provide
me with a sentimental month to say, “I owe so
much of me to you.”’

Thank you for the pleasure of thinking.

1807 Abbott
Dallas, Texas

ale ° . °
ey Here is a testament of devotion so eloquent, so

heartwarming, so genuine, accompanied by a lov-
ingly made valentine, that we must share its senti-

ments with our readers and hope their own feelings
are reflected here also. Thank you, Mrs. Jacobow.

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HERE’S A MAN

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL |

Nee GS

BY HARLAN MILLER

A few housewives in our neighborhood wrote
Mrs. Khrushchev to needle her husband to
keep the peace. They’re confident she ploys
him and drawls the last word.

Best behaved of four children at a neighbor’s
dinner table gets the lighted candle during
dessert and wins the right to clear the table.
A veritable child of fortune!

Let overseas news bulletins flash like forked
lightning in a dark sky. I believe privately
that Washington and Lincoln had it grim-
mer; and that our charms and virtues will
survive.

A Dutch vendor of Italian pizza in our town
offers it spiced at three strengths—mild,
medium and red-hot. (If you change your
mind, there’s a plump little plastic bag of
pepper.)

A New Yorker taught us The Twist in our liv-
ing room: he drilled us to pretend we were
stamping out an imaginary cigarette with
bare feet, drying our rears with an imaginary
towel.

Gradually we acquire modern candor: I tell
my Dream Girl which of my old girls get val-
entines and which get flowers; she tells me
which old beaux remember.

When the preschool bus deposits Harlan III
at the faraway corner, he sprints all the way
home with high knee action, yelling to his
mother sensational bulletins like, “I gave the
teacher half my sandwich!”

Back in college to clutch at last her master’s
degree in sociology, a neighborhood mother of
two tots confesses she often spends five hours
on one assignment and ten hours for one test.

A few of us judges at Atlantic City thought
Judge Joan Crawford somewhat overshad-
owed Miss America. But you might say that
dates us.

A rebel tourist recites his hair-raising adven-
ture at a Northern varsity basketball game:
“T thought I was watching a game between
Howard U. and Fisk!”

My Dream Girl is shocked by my discovery
that all five coffee tables in our living room
are home-designed: blond door, old round
black dinner table, tile table, coin-and-glass
table, and an old one disguised by marble
top. ‘““My Leonardo!” she murmurs.

In our teens my dad made all four of us chil-
dren say grace at each meal; now our daugh-
ter’s young ones take turns, under my vigilant
son-in-law’s eagle ear.

I vowed to dance with our town’s ten pretti-
est matrons at the Junior League’s charity
ball. Then my basketball knee winced.

My three sisters and I agreed on a reunion.
Three of us concede our sister Mary is the
best cook, so we consented to stage it at her
house.

At a girls’ basketball game my Dream Girl
reminisced she’d played in middies and bloom-
ers on Miss Madeira’s school team. “‘Don’t
you think,” asked a classmate, “‘this dates
us?”

Our neighbors were late at the airport to greet
dad’s war pal; a necktie had to be cut down to
fit their seven-year-old son. (Nobody ever cut
a necktie for me!)

Our son-in-law has inducted my wife into
their neighborhood investment club. She in-
vests $14 a month, and her original $297
equity has soared to a cool $309.

... When Junior’s promoted to captain and
we pop a champagne cork in celebration over
long-distance phone,
.. . Or our daughter-in-law becomes an en-
thusiastic cyclist like her dad-in-law,
. . . And our redhead turns out to be an
artistic moderne decorator of Noel fireplace
socks,
... Or her younger daughter at three reveals
a notable resemblance to Natalie Wood,
... And my Enchanted Lady decides against
a winter trip to stay home and “force”
amaryllis,

Then one more ex-bachelor discovers he’s
comfortably swamped by the wave of the fu-
ture.

HENRY
BolTNOrE

“Pm glad you asked what we'd like to talk about!”

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54 ;
E C

MADE WITH
SOFTASILK CAKE FLOUR
AND CALIFORNIA PRUNES!

IS sul world’s first and only
se cake flour...now you don’t
S _ have to sift for any of your favorite

n't you treat your famil
Tay flavored whigoed he
My the recipe and see

oa how easy it is to
+ bake a cake this high
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This cake is so special you have to start from scratch!
Whipped “Prune Gake
(No-sift recipe)

Yq cup vegetable oil
1 cup milk
2 tsp. lemon rind

21/4 cups unsifted*
SOFTASILK Cake Flour
3 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. salt

1 cup finely cut cooked
prunes

2 eggs, separated

12 cups sugar

asilk, spoon flour to overflowing into nested
ith straight-edged spatula. Heat
flour 2 round layer pans,

To measure Soft
measuring cups, level off w
oven to 350° (mod.). Grease and
9 x 14%”. In small bowl, beat prunes, eg& whites and Y2 cup
until stiff, to form a prune whip. In large bowl stir
ar, baking powder and salt. Add vegetable oll, 2 cup
1 min., med. speed on mixer or 150 strokes by
bow! constantly. Add remaining milk
ing bowl frequently. Fold in prune
35 min., or until toothpick stuck
of cake comes out clean. Fill and frost with 1/2 cups whip-
d. Cut'6 uncooked prunes In half and cut fruit from
orate with prune halves.

sugar
flour, remaining SUB
milk and lemon rind. Beat
hand. Scrape bottom and sides of
and egg yolks. Beat 1 more min., scrap

whip. Pour into prepared pans. Bake

into center
ping cream, whippe
pits with kitchen shears. Dec

4 8 7 és 0
P ee . g A

py ’ - 5 a
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im :

THE CALIFORNIA WONDER FRUIT

Pai al=\Adomec lal alee al=anamsaU ian Aiea mm olarciaie

new taste — today’s prunes from
California. They’re tender and succulent, com- _
pletely different from the prunes you may ?
i_ oe remember from your childhood. Get

Sse ee acquainted soon. Bake this exciting
ae Whipped Prune Cake. Start breakfast with prunes.
Treat the youngsters to them right from the

package. Today’s prunes are so naturally sweet

M with tree-ripened flavor...so rich in |, 3

VT and minerals, too. Discover them for |’

DE ee California wonder fruit!
é

earth atts POET Te) 8g ELT

CALIFORNIA

CAN THIS MARRIAGE BE SAVED?

SHE: “I’m not impressed by Tim’s lectures on thrift. His
money grubbing and his business mean more than I do.”

HE: ‘Worry over Jill’s wild spending is always in my
thoughts. Her extravagance has paralyzed my ambition.”

JILL TELLS HER SIDE: “For the third year in suc-
cession my mother-in-law has vetoed a vacation for my
husband and me,” said thirty-five-year-old Jill, speaking
at machine-gun speed and quivering with indignation.
“Tim is head of the family business—a small hardware
factory —and his mother has always been the secretary-
treasurer. Tim’s father founded the organization. After
his death, Tim inherited the title, the duties and the re-
sponsibilities of company president, but you would
never guess it from his income.

“Last year Tim’s share of the profits amounted to
approximately $800 a month, or so he says. His mother
and his two brothers paid themselves exactly what he
received, which is crashingly unfair. Tim is the brains of
the outfit and works twice as hard as the others.

“Both his brothers took long, leisurely vacations.
John and his family went to Europe in June. Arthur, a
bachelor who puts in more time chasing girls than on the
job, flew to Hawaii for July. Yet my mother-in-law de-
cided Tim couldn’t be spared for two skimpy weeks, or
else Tim himself—he tells me as little as possible about
the business—decided he preferred sticking to his desk
to enjoying a holiday with me and the children.

“He said we couldn’t afford a vacation, a ridiculous
statement in view of the fact that the company recently
doubled in size because of a clever innovation of his. At
the time of the expansion he promised our youngsters
(we have two lovely daughters and a twelve-year-old
son) we would drive to Yosemite as soon as school was
out. They were brokenhearted at the disappointment.
The girls in particular carried on terribly; all their
friends went somewhere. To make up to Diana and Fay
for their father’s broken promise, I treated them to a
summer of horseback lessons. I bought both girls stun-
ning riding outfits. The outfits and lessons were a cheap
substitute for a trip, but Tim objected strenuously to the
expense. My mother-in-law also objected. She knew to
the penny what I had spent.

‘All our household bills, except a few small personal
accounts of mine, pass through her hands and are paid in
the factory bookkeeping department. Ever since Tim
and I set up housekeeping—we’ve been married sixteen
years—I’ve protested the arrangement. He won’t admit
that it’s humiliating and unfair to me to have his mother
check and sit in judgment on my purchases. Nor will he

“Jill made her own rules and made a mess of our lives.”’

admit that he is shamefully exploited in his job, that he
is underpaid and overworked. He desperately needs a
chance to escape the daily grind. He is bone-tired, his
ulcer is kicking up again, his own doctor has recom-
mended he take a rest.

“When Tim gets home in the evening—we never see
him before eight P.M. unless he has a Little League base-
ball date with Bobby, our son—he is too dazed with
fatigue to give companionship to me and our daughters.
On Thursday night it was ten P.M. when he arrived and
he fell sound asleep on the sofa before I could bring his
food from the warming oven. While I shouted at him he
slept like the dead. But then Diana, our fourteen-year-
old, stopped to sample the dessert on his tray, and he
snapped wide awake. Diana is a trifle overweight and he
seems to take her appetite as a personal affront. He made
a sarcastic remark about her waistline, perhaps intended
as a joke, but he hurt her feelings.

“She came back at him with the flip remark that a

man with his paunch hadn’t CONTINUED ON PAGE 131

Truman VM. Jolley

Lack of money does not of itself break up marriages. Researches find no relation between the amount of an individual's in-
come and his happiness, among either the married or the single. But if spouses want to quarrel, the finances provide a
good opportunity for conflict because they are always present. The difficulties of the couple here described were associated
i with the wife’s handling of the finances; but they were difficulties merely because the wife wanted her husband to pay more
attention to her, and one way to make him do so was to spend more money than he thought she ought to spend. When
she learned how to get his attention in more profitable ways, and when he faced the fact that any wife ought to receive

i more attention than he had given his wife, their conflict over finances subsided. Many such conflicts might be avoided in
the first place, if husband and wife started out with a budget on which they agreed. . . . The counselor in this case was

Pau Popenok, Sc.D., American Institute of Family Relations

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“A diagnosis of malignancy
no longer means a death
sentence. We fight

cancer today as hard as

we do any other disease, and
very much in the same

manner. And we often cure it!”

The doctor was so deep in thought as he
walked toward Eugenie Foster’s hospital
room that he did not hear several greetings
addressed to him. He was recalling the vital
woman who had entered his office a week
before. Recently back from Africa, where
her husband had been engaged on a Gov-
ernment mission, Eugenie was deeply
tanned, and appeared much younger and
more vigorous than any woman of thirty-
seven had a right to look, the doctor had
assured her in all sincerity.

She had agreed she had never felt better.
Of course in Africa good medical facilities
had been in short supply. And since their
return to the United States she and her
husband had been kept so busy lecturing,
making reports and seeing relatives and
friends that Eugenie had had no time to
consult a doctor about the occasional spot-
ting between periods, the increasing vagi-
nal discharge, which had taken on a
brownish tint of late. She assumed it was
something to do with menopause. But 1n-
asmuch as their travels had brought them
within range of her obstetrician—the doc-
tor had delivered Eugenie’s children some
years before—she had thought she ought
to run in for a precautionary checkup.

No, she had replied to the doctor’s ques-
tions, there had been no difficulties aside
from those she mentioned. No irregularities
in the menses, no unusual pains, no pain at
intercourse. ‘“The discharge often occurs
after I have been doing something strenu-
ous or after intercourse. I have noticed it,
too, after applying one of the antiseptic
suppositories a doctor in Africa gave me.”

Fortunately Eugenie had remembered
the doctor’s injunction never to douche be-
fore an internal examination. He had been
able to rule out quickly trichomonas, yeast
and minor infections as the cause of the
discharge and spotting.

“You have what I call an aggravated
erosion, Eugenie,” he had said when the
examination was completed. ‘Some of the
sensitive lining of the cervical canal has
become displaced downward onto the
vaginal portion of the cervix. It doesn’t do

» ME

too well in the vaginal climate, which is
acid as opposed to the alkaline atmosphere
of the cervical canal. Also, it is easily af-
fected by the bacteria of the vagina. That
is the reason for the discharge. The tissue
may be irritated by douching or inter-
course, and strenuous activity may make
the discharge more copious, aS you men-
tioned.”

“How could the lining get out of place,
Doctor ?”’

“It’s generally the result of an unavoid-
able minor injury in childbirth, although
some women are born with the condition.
Even if the misplaced tissue is cauterized
and disappears, it often recurs, especially
in women who have had more than one
child. The chief concern about it is that if
it is not treated, it becomes a chronically
irritated area. Erosions may bleed easily
when no cancer is present. But suspicion
should immediately be aroused by this type
of bleeding, especially in older women.”

“You don’t think I have cancer?”

“Such erosions are not malignant in
themselves, at least to begin with. But they
do constitute a vulnerable focus in a can-
cer-sensitive area,’’ the doctor had replied
cautiously. “‘Let’s not jump to any con-
clusions, though. The report on the Papani-
colaou smears I took won’t be back till day
after tomorrow. However, regardless of
what the laboratory finds, I would like to
put you in the hospital within the next
week for biopsy, dilatation and curettage.
Then we will know exactly what the trou-
ble is. In the meantime, don’t use any
more of those antiseptic suppositories.”

Eugenie had been considerably subdued
when she left the office. The doctor was
glad that the more thorough exploration
in the hospital having been arranged, it was
not necessary to tell her the laboratory
had reported highly suspicious cells in the
Papanicolaou smears. It was a good thing
the biopsy and curettage had been set for
an early date.

Though the diagnostic operation was a
minor one, Eugenie’s husband, Fred Fos-
ter, had canceled an important meeting to

DOCTOR

By GOODRICH C. SCHAUFFLER, M.D.

wait outside the surgery. Inside the oper-
ating room the doctor, using a rotating
knife, had removed a cone-shaped speci-
men of the lining of the cervix for his biopsy
specimen. Next, a routine dilatation and
curettage (scraping) of the lining of the
entire uterus was done. In this way it was
possible to study the whole inside of the
organ instead of isolated suspicious areas.
The pathologist, who was present, had been
relieved by the first sight of the curettings
and the specimen from the cervix. “It looks
like an ordinary inflamed erosion. But we’ll
do an immediate frozen section on the cone
removed from the cervix.”

No definitive cancer cells were found in
the frozen section, but the doctor had had
to warn Fred Foster that this was by no
means conclusive. “Only a microscopic
part of the tissue can be examined in this
quick way. These immediate frozen sec-
tions—it takes only about twelve minutes
to prepare them—are most valuable if they
return a definite positive diagnosis. In
that case I would start treatment at once—
your wife would be spared having to under-
go another anesthesia. But a negative diag-
nosis at this point does not exclude the
possibility of cancer. The malignant cells
might be somewhere else in the specimen,
or simply not show up well, because of the
less exact type of preparation. We will have
little to lose by waiting thirty hours for the
reports on the permanent sections, which
represent painstaking examination of areas
from the entire specimen. I used deep elec-
trocoagulation on the cut areas. We think
that this pretty much prevents malignant
cells, if they are present, from spreading as
aresult of the cutting.”

Now the report had come from the per-
manent sections, and it was the doctor’s
unpleasant duty to deliver it. The Fosters
would want the truth, but a doctor’s man-
ner when he delivered news of this kind was
tremendously important. To be gloomy or
overly sympathetic could destroy the pa-
tient’s morale. To be too glib or cheery, on
the other hand, might give the impression
that the doctor was CONTINUED ON PAGE 130

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DO
CHILDREN

EVER
BENEFTTL
FROM
DIVORCE ?

By BENJAMIN SPOCK,, M.D.

“A marriage that has begun to go wrong
is hard on a child even if the parents
leave him out of the fights. Without
realizing it, they use him as a pawn, one
leasing him as a way of getting at the
other, the other exaggerating the child’s
plight in order to justify his own anger.”

|
LADIES’ HOME JOU

DR. SPOCK TALKS WITH MOT H@

Here are excerpts from a mother’s letter:

“T need advice on an unhappy marriage and its ef
on children. I realized from the beginning that our
riage was a mistake. Before the birth of our son, t
years ago, we managed to present a mask of compatib
in public. Now I am wondering if you would conside
vorce less damaging to the boy. I suggested consulti
marriage counselor, but my husband opposed the idea.
is completely selfish, miserly and antisocial. I have ye
see him do a kindly, unmotivated act for another per
His only interest is driving a big car. He showed no inte
in the baby during the infant period, although they
year he has developed a sort of top-sergeant affection
him. When he comes home, he turns on the TV and ¢
himself a drink. Then the dialogue goes something
this: ‘Peter, come here, give daddy a kiss.’ This is delive
in a disciplinarian tone, and if the boy is reluctant hei
for a hard time. If we get past the homecoming greet
without conflict, things are quiet for a short while. T}
while the youngster is sitting quietly, playing or reading
watching television, my husband will start to tease .
He'll give him a little kick with his shoe or pull his
Peter either gets irritated or, if he decides it is a game,
starts to roughhouse. At this point my husband will |
cide to give his attention to his newspaper or television 4
he promptly gets angry and gives the child a cuff and t
him to be quiet.

“T realize that I, too, have faults, but without co-op¢
tion from my husband I am unable to resolve our problej
I am thirty-five years old, and it would be financially nec
sary for me to work and put my son in a nursery until
is school age. Do you think there is any age when divore
less harmful to a child?”

It’s impossible to make any flat statement about the 4
sirability of divorce for a child’s sake. Almost all marria
involve some conflict, and children always sense it, so thi
is no escaping it altogether. On the average we find m
disturbed children in families where there is severe pare
conflict, and there is every reason to try to remedy s
situations. But divorce is not necessarily a solution.

Young children are upset at least temporarily w
parents separate. They know—to the marrow of t
bones—that they want both a mother and a father. T
almost invariably protest against a separation, unless @
parent is behaving outrageously. When they live wit
divorced mother they are usually begging her to remary
Surveys of divorced women with children have shown t |
many of those who have not remarried find life grim: a jj
of necessity, not by choice; * CONTINUED ON PAGH P

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32
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 30

a tighter budget; a greater diminution of so-
cial contact with old married friends; the diffi-
culty of finding satisfactory care for the chil-
dren; the obligation to spend evenings and
weekends with them without the companion-
ship of another adult who shares the respon-
sibility and the pride; the anxiety about
whether one parent can satisfy the child’s
need for two; often an over-all sense of go-
ing round and round in a squirrel cage with-
out any promising destination. This doesn’t
mean that it’s impossible for a mother alone
to bring up children successfully, for many
do it. The outcome will depend partly on
the mother’s ability to find satisfaction in her
job and in a new social life, partly on her ca-
pacity to remain a wholesome mother to them
despite natural impulses toward resentfulness,
guiltiness, permissiveness, possessiveness.

As for remarriage, when parents enter it
maturely and make a go of it, most of the
children achieve a satisfactory adjustment.
On the other hand, a disturbing proportion
of second marriages runs into serious trouble
too. This means, of course, that there is some-
thing persistently out of kilter in these in-
dividuals—either in personality or in their
unconscious reaction to marriage.

Since there are serious hazards either in con-
tinuing or in terminating a strained marriage,
parents owe it to their children as well as
themselves to consult, in good faith, a psy-
chiatrist (or two psychiatrists), a family social
agency, a marriage-counseling service or a
minister. This is to get professional help in
evaluating not just their mutual complaints
but their underlying problem and the pos-
sibility of its solution. Ideally, after thorough
consultation, it becomes clear to both part-
ners in one case that they have a potentially
good marriage and they want to preserve it;
in another situation it becomes increasingly
apparent that it was an unhealthy marriage,
doomed from the start. In either case the hus-
band and wife should be able to learn more
about themselves so that there will be a better
chance of future stability—in the present mar-
riage or in new ones.

The hitch is that many couples balk at the
idea of counseling. So often one parent, at
least, is feeling thoroughly fed up, convinced
that the other spouse deserves the lion’s share
of the blame. He or she believes that the last
thing in the world he wants is to find a way to
continue. the marriage. To go to a counselor
seems like admitting guilt—or at least it seems
like. admitting doubt. It’s generally true that
refusal to discuss a fateful choice indicates a
secret fear of being proved wrong (more men
than women are susceptible to this fear).

Even if one spouse refuses altogether to take
part in counseling, it should be very worth

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

while for the other spouse to go ahead anywa:
In any chronic conflict between two peop
there is always some kind of fit, some pa
ticular matching between the two personaliti¢
that keeps it going. The old saying is that
takes two to make a quarrel. This doesn
necessarily mean that there is equal fault in
legal sense or in a moral sense.

li give you an oversimplified outline o:
common type of emotional disturbance i
marriage in which the partners play interlock
ing roles that neither understands conscious!
Individuals who grow up in families whe
there is more than average teasing and qual
reling and meanness may reach the stage b}
adulthood where they not only expect this i
all their close human relationships, but
consciously seek it. What was originally pan
ful becomes—in a perverse way—griml)
pleasurable. These individuals unconscious}
expect their own marriages to be largely co
posed of teasing or sneering or yelling o
blows, and they seem to find spouses who’
fit this pattern. (Less scrappy types appea
dull and flavorless to them.) One spouse ma
play a more aggressive part and the other
more submissive one. But if you observe thei
quarrels closely you see that they are bot!
provoking each other. The wife who shout!
“Don’t you hit me, you thug!” before this ides
has occurred to her husband is an obvioul
example. Each spouse is indignant about thé
retaliation of the other, but fails to see his ow!
needling. The close tie between negative ani
positive feelings is shown in these marriage)
by the frequency with which lovemaking i!
preceded by a violent quarrel.

Psychiatrists use the term sadomasochisti¢
for these relationships. To a mild degree al)
of us have the capacity to get a bit of pleasur’
from aggressiveness or submission. This 1s
what makes us able to enjoy giving and tak}
ing “good-natured” teasing, or trouncing a
opponent in a game, or working like a dog or,
a committee for a demanding chairman. So we
are discussing tendencies that are not ab;
normal in themselves but which, if accentu/
ated through a person’s upbringing, ma
dominate and warp his marriage. Often whe
marriages have begun to go wrong for othet
reasons, and the partners have become resent:
ful of each other’s faults and secretly guilt
about their own, they may drift deeper and
deeper into mutual provocation.

A marriage of this sort is hard on a child
even if the parents leave him out of the fights
More frequently, without realizing it, the
use him as a pawn, one teasing him as a wa’
of getting at the other, the other exaggerating
the child’s plight in order to justify his o
anger. If the mother and father stay together

CONTINUED ON PAGE 117
i

NURSERY

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—

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| ran up the companionway to the top deck
with the rest of the school kids just as Captain
Boggs pulled the last toot. It was the first day
of real summer weather. With only one more
week of school, we might have been shoving
and yelling more than usual. Anyway, as soon
as the ferry—our ‘‘school bus’’—got out of the
slip Joe, the quartermaster, came down from
the pilothouse to make everybody sit on the
long slatted benches and behave.

‘Look at the scenery!”’

We all groaned, the way we always did. i

O Joe probably knew more about Sockaquisset
A Bay than anybody. Sometimes he had the sum-

i) DAA eA teats

mer tourists swiveling their heads around at

the World War II Navy installations: the air

a base on Anvil Island, the dry docks on Goose
yo and Goslings, the torpedo-testing laboratory on
Kent and the big radar station that stuck out

into the Atlantic Ocean on the end of our own

island, Trebel. He knew the names of the car-

riers, submarines and destroyers that came and

went through the narrows or swung slowly

around the buoys in mid-bay as the tide changed.

: As he went back up the ladder to the pilot-

- f house, he said, ‘‘Or study your lessons!”

We all groaned even louder, but we did set-
tle down. About ten other kids and | wound i
up at the stern where the grownups usually
stayed out of the wind (and the commotion on
school trips). A Navy officer leaning on the rail
staring at the wake turned around slowly as we
scrambled into place. The last time | had seen
Key Weedon, he was leaning in just the same
way on the pier railing in front of our house.

“Hi, commander!” | said, jumping up and
going over to him.

}

i
_ He gave a start. ““Oh—Alex! | was going to | ae
walk around aftera bit and see if | could find :
you and Luke.”

“You coming over to our house?”’ | knew he
couldn't be; he would have taken the Navy
gig direct from the torpedo-testing lab on Kent
Island. CONTINUED ON PAGE 80

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If it is possible to diagnose mental illness after a murder or rape, why can’t it be done before? Violent felons are almost sure to repeat; most give warning signs.

KILLER

HAN) BEEN
PAROLED

o--£

ime after time these

ords show up in the report
“some brutal crime. Now

any top criminologists

re saying we should require
‘-murderers and sex criminals
) undergo periodic

sychiatric examinations to

eep them from striking again.

Y ROBERT P. CROSSLEY

It was a Christmas to remember. A friend of my
teenage daughter was at our house after supper,
looking at the presents. The phone rang. It was
the girl’s mother, excited. ““A crazy man is run-
ning around our neighborhood, shooting people
and throwing acid,”
sure you wereall right.” The crazy man, Lawrence
Moser, had just killed histwo daughters, maimed
his wife and three other people with acid, and
shot an ex-neighbor. An hour later he was dead
by his own gun.

Our town, Stamford, Connecticut, surely has
no more crime and violence than other towns its
size. Yet twice in six months it was thrown into
panic by violent felons who should never have
been at large.

During the summer of 1960 some friends of
ours rented a room to a quiet, well-mannered
young man who had joined the Norwalk Hos-
pital as a technician. The hospital sent the
young man to them, but it didn’t tell them he
had just been paroled from Stateville Prison in
Illinois. On July 10the new roomer asked a doctor
at the hospital to examine his swollen knee. The
doctor applied a bandage, but did not discover
a bullet freshly lodged in his thigh. The bullet
was from the gun of Stamford Patrolman David
Troy, killed three nights before by a bandit flee-
ing a tavern holdup. Called to Chicago by the
death of his brother, the wounded technician
was arrested there for the slaying. No one was
more surprised than our friends.

They wouldn’t have been surprised if they
had known more about him. The killer, Joseph
DeSalvo, had been in trouble with the law since
he stole money from newsstands at the age of
eight. In 1942, when he was thirteen, he was
sent to the Illinois State Training School. Pa-
roled in 1944, he was back again in 1945, paroled

she said. “‘I wanted to be

a second time in 1946. In October of that year
while he was “‘visiting”’
picious of his new car, frisked him, found a pistol
and discovered the car was stolen. Sent to jail, he
beat up another prisoner and tried to hang
himself. Arrested in Rock Island five years later
after shooting a Chicago alderman ina robbery,
DeSalvo tried twice to kill himself by cutting his
wrists with a broken light bulb.

the school, officials, sus-

That same year he was sentenced to the II-
linois State Penitentiary for 10 to 70 years.
While in prison he learned to be a hospital tech-
nician. After 814 years he was paroled and came
to Connecticut. It was while being tried for the
slaying of Officer Troy, in Stamford, that he
made another —and successful—suicide attempt.

Lawrence Moser, the Christmas killer, was
something else. Married, with two attractive
daughters, one a freshman at the state univer-
sity, he lived in a two-story colonial house in a
good part of Stamford. Although he had lost his
job, he called himself a “‘consulting engineer”’
and always seemed to have money.

He was considered quarrelsome by his neigh-
bors—‘“‘a real louse’? by one. They left him
alone after he provoked arguments at neighbor-
hood parties and got into rows at PTA. To the
men, he was a “wise guy”’ who had to have the
best of everything—clothes,
The women liked Helen Moser and

gourmet foods,
fancy liquor.
felt sorry for her. They knew her husband was a
sadist: that he fed the birds, then shot them;
that he peppered his girls and neighborhood
children with BB’s as they waded in the river
behind the house; that he teased his daughters
by twisting their arms and called them “‘chicken’”’
if they cried; that he enjoyed dipping small fish
from one pool to another to watch them get

eaten.

No one got really concerned about Law-
rence Moser, though, until early in November,
1960, when he tried to strangle his wife. The
neighbor women found her a boardinghouse,
and she moved out under the eye of a police-
man, taking Marion, the younger girl, with
her. Lawrence made desperate efforts to get
her to come back. He called the neighbors,
cried on the telephone, and asked what he had
done wrong.

A priest tried to work out a reconciliation if
Moser would agree to go to a psychiatrist,
but he refused. After the attempted stran-
gling, Helen asked her doctor, who was also
treating her husband for an ulcer, if he thought
Lawrence was crazy. The doctor replied, “‘It
would be hard to prove.” A week before
Christmas another priest called Helen and
asked, ‘““Mrs. Moser, I’ve been talking to your
husband. Do you know he is crazy?”

On Christmas Day, Lawrence persuaded
Helen and Marion to go to dinner with him
and Charlotte, who was home from college
and staying with her father. Quarrelsome as
ever, Lawrence got into an argument with the
waitress because the table legs weren’t level.
He begged Helen not to divorce him, but she had
had enough. Because Charlotte sided with her
mother, Moser ordered her to move out, too,
and drove all three out to the house to get
her things.

Despite the fact that he was alone with one
daughter, Moser had the brightest Christmas
decorations on Cold Spring Road. There were
wreaths in the windows, and aluminum-foil
candles spelled out “Peace on Earth” over the
front door.

But Lawrence Moser drove up to the side
door. The girls went in to get Charlotte’s
things. Lawrence and Helen stayed in the car
and argued. Then he went in too. Helen heard
three shots. She leaped from the car and ran
across the street. Lawrence ran out of the
house, caught her, and rubbed hydrofluoric
acid into her face. Veronica Frommeyer, their
next-door neighbor, remembers the Shirley
Temple Show had just come on when she
heard the shots. She came running out. Moser
rubbed acid on her too.

A neighboring doctor was the first one in
the Moser kitchen. He found the girls lying
dead amid gaily wrapped Christmas presents
that had never been opened.

Meanwhile, Lawrence Moser was speeding
five miles north to the home of his ex-neigh-
bors, the Robert Garthwaites, who had
earned his enmity by being good to Helen and
by moving to a fancier neighborhood. He
drove in their 600-foot lane and burst into the
Garthwaites’ kitchen.

“Pye hada horrible Christmas!” he shouted.
“Now you will too.” As the Garthwaites’ two
children and Mrs. Garthwaite’s mother
looked on in horror, he squirted acid from a
water pistol on Betty Garthwaite and shot her
husband twice with a .25 Beretta and squirted
acid on him too.

“It was all over in thirty seconds,” Betty
Garthwaite says. But it is not all over for her
husband, who still has a bullet in the back of
his skull—too close to his spinal column for
surgeons to take it out.

Moser made the mistake of trying to back
out of the long driveway. Just as he reached
the road, he got stuck in a snowbank. He took
off on foot through the wooded, rocky hills
north of the Merritt Parkway. An hour later
a state trooper and a special policeman found
him wandering near a main road. Before they
could seize him, he put a second pistol to his
head and pulled the trigger.

An this made grisly reading the day after
Christmas, but the real shocker was yet to
come. Only after Moser had killed his daugh-
ters did it become known that he had murdered
his first wife’s brother under shockingly similar
circumstances thirty years before.

Between the time Moser shot Charlotte
and Marion and the time he shot himself,
Chief of Police Joseph Kinsella got a phone
call from Moser’s lawyer. “Chief,” the lawyer
said, “‘there’s something you ought to know
about Lawrence Moser. He killed a man
thirty years ago and served time in Sing Sing.
He’s dangerous.”

Neither Chief Kinsella nor anyone else
needed to be told that by this time. But it

might have made a difference it more people
had known it sooner. Apparenily no one in
Stamford knew of Lawrence Moser’s past ex-
cept his wife, his attorney, a priest, and per-
haps his doctor. And none of them felt free to
talk.

It was also learned that Moser’s mother had
died of cancer on Christmas Day thirty-one
years before and that he became depressed on
Christmas ever since, and that he had tried to
kill Helen ten years ago in Wisconsin. Now,
even in the tragic sorrow of her daughters’
deaths, Helen Moser felt relief “like coming
out of prison after nineteen years.”

Searching the house afterward, her brothers
found two live hand grenades and a book on
booby traps in the basement, where Moser
spent long hours over his stamp collection.

Because the whole episode happened prac-
tically on his doorstep and because the
Garthwaites were members of his church, the
Rey. Hendricks Osborne, of the North Stam-
ford Congregational Church, devoted his
sermon to the Moser tragedy on New Year’s
Sunday.

“The tragedy of this past Christmas
night,” he told his congregation, “‘is our fault.
We were warned for five years that Lawrence
Moser was a madman, but we would not lis-
tenn

The young minister demanded that Con-
necticut do something to prevent, or help
prevent, such tragedies in the future. One
step, he suggested, might be a law requiring
all persons ever convicted of a violent felony—
murder, first-degree manslaughter, armed as-
sault, rape, and so on—to report periodically
for a psychiatric examination. With the sup-
port of State Representative Martin F. Arm-

FIFTY YEARS AGO

IN THE JOURNAL

In February, 1912, American living
rooms had tan walls, golden-oak wood-
work, and hand-stenciled scrim cur-
tains. China became a republic, Arizona
became a state, and the chief home rem-
edy for grippe was castor oil.

Remarks Editor Bok in the February,
1912, Journal, ““ Hundreds of parents are
writing to this magazine condemning
motion-picture showsas‘a menace to our
young’ which‘ must be stopped at once.’”’

In this issue we see Maude Adams wear-
ing Arab robes camping on the Egyp-
tian desert, Sarah Bernhardt “‘shrimp-
ing, shooting and playing tennis every
day”’ at 66, and Thomas Edison lunch-
ing on two sardines on a piece of toast.

“Ts there a boardinghouse in your town
without plumbing? Rent your bathroom
to the girl boarders for 25 cents a bath,
including soap and towels.”

“When hanging clothes on a freezing
day, put a hot-water bag in the clothes-
basket.”

The Journal's House of the Month had
two stories and four bedrooms, cost
$2900 to build. Heating costs came to
$120 a year; electricity, $60.

“For your brass bed, make a spread of
white dotted swiss over pink or yellow
silk.”

“Theodore Roosevelt is probably the
best-known man in the world today.”

ka A

strong, a former member of the Homicide
Bureau in the New York District Attorney’s
office, he presented the idea to the Joint Com-
mittee on Penal Institutions of the Connecti-
cut Legislature a few weeks later.

Indiana has just adopted a similar plan,
limited to sex offenders on parole. It was
rushed through by executive order after the
dismembered body of eleven-year-old Avril
Terry of Boonville was found in the Ohio
River in August, 1960. Her killer, fifty-three-
year-old Emmett Hashfield, had a record of
sex offenses going back to 1927. He was known
to have raped one woman and four girls and
to have criminally assaulted a ten-year-old
boy. Sentenced to prison for eleven years, he
was paroled in 1958. A week before he ab-
ducted Avril Terry, Hashfield had been driven
from his brother’s house for molesting his
own nieces and nephews. Indiana hopes its
new rule will help save other children from
Avril Terry’s fate.

i New York State, the Division of Parole
has a Mental Hygiene Unit in New York City,
staffed by psychiatrists. Here certain parolees
are referred for examination and treatment.
The division’s chairman Russell G. Oswald
considers it a protection to society and thinks
some version of the Osborne plan would be
similarly valuable.

Certainly it would have been valuable to
have kept a psychiatric eye on Patsy Tomasi-
ello, a twenty-four-year-old father in Newark,
New Jersey. He was in the last month of pro-
bation in March, 1961, for a disorderly-con-
duct charge when he picked up his eight-
month-old daughter, saying, “I am God. The
baby has to die for the good of mankind.” It
was 3 A.M., but Tomasiello dashed nude into
the street with the child in his arms, swung her
by the heels against a building, and threw her
through a window into a neighbor’s bedroom.
Tomasiello had once served fifteen months for
assaulting his wife.

This bears out the observation of one of
America’s top criminologists, Virgil W. Peter-
son, operating director of the Chicago Crime
Commission. “In many instances,” Peterson
says, “aggravated assaults are not considered
as warning signals that such an individual
might resort to further crimes of violence.”
Peterson thinks that requiring persons con-
victed of a violent felony to report periodi-
cally for a psychiatric examination is a sound
idea.

So does Dr. Ralph S. Banay, former direc-
tor of the psychiatric clinic at Sing Sing. So
does Dr. David Abrahamsen author of The
Psychology of Crime. So does Dr. Stuart
Palmer, University of New Hampshire so-
ciologist, who interviewed fifty-one “‘lifers”
for his book, A Study in Murder.

Two facts stand out in any study of violent
felons: 1—Some are pretty sure to repeat;
2—Most of these give warning signs that
trained observers can detect.

As I mailed a letter at our branch post
office the other morning, a sheaf of posters
caught my eye—dangerous criminals, wanted
by the FBI for rape and murder. I copied the
names and asked J. Edgar Hoover, who had
already expressed concern over “the prema-
ture release of dangerous criminals through
frequently occurring abuses in our system of
parole,” to fill me in on their histories.

No fewer than 125 of the 147 criminals
listed on the FBI’s roll of “Ten Most-Wanted
Fugitives” since 1950 had, Mr. Hoover re-
plied, been recipients of parole, probation or
other forms of clemency. Of 14 FBI agents
killed by criminal gunfire, 12, he said, were
shot by killers who had received “‘judicial
leniency.’’ The FBI director then gave me the
full rundown on the faces on the post-office
wall. This one example is typical:

Donald L. Payne: Sought for alleged rape of
eighteen-year-old dancer in Houston after
posing as manager of a dance troupe; threat-
ened to strangle her. Five days earlier per-
petrated sex attack on twelve-year-old boy.
Record starts in 1937, when he was sentenced
to 3 to 5 years in New Mexico State Prison
for raping a fifteen-year-old girl. Involved in
jail break and sentenced to 25 years. This term
suspended for “‘good behavior,”’ and sentence
on rape charge commuted to 2 to 5 years.
1939: Paroled. 1940: Charged with sex per-

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA\

version on a woman. Suspended jail-brea|
sentence invoked, returned to penitentiary
1948: Sentence commuted to 15 years. 1949
Released and given a bus ticket to Los An
geles. 1950: Took a nine-year-old girl and he
ten-year-old brother to remote area; rape¢
girl twice, perpetrated perverted sex acts o
both children. Sentenced to consecutive sen
tences of 0 to 50 years for rape and consec’
tive terms of 0 to 15 years for sex perversio
Paroled in 1957. Being sought as parole vio
lator when he raped the girl in Houston.
Why, one wonders. was a man like Payn
paroled so many times? Surely closer supe’
vision and psychiatric checkups might hay
saved some of his victims.
Why, one wonders, didn’t someone keep ar
eye on Henry Izard after he served time for at
tempted rape fifteen years ago? Perhaps thd
sixteen young secretaries he raped in Park
Avenue offices in one month—Septembe
1960—might have been spared lifelong night
mares.
It is a matter of record that most violen
criminals, sudden murderers in particular
give warnings of their impending acts. Cer
tainly Lawrence Moser’s cruelty to animals-
called by Dr. Manfred S. Guttmacher, chie
medical officer of the Supreme Bench of Balti:
more, “a very malignant sign’’—his hostilit
to the neighbors, his previous attacks on his
wife should have alerted somebody.
A friend of Melvin Rees Jr. did become
suspicious of Rees’s preoccupation with the
writings of the Marquis de Sade. He alsc
thought Rees’s hobby of watching the occu
pants of an adjoining bedroom through a two
way mirror in the wall of his boardinghouse
room Was a bit eccentric. But by the time he
reported his suspicions to the police and FBI)
four members of the Carroll Jackson family, of
Apple Grove, Virginia, were dead. Rees was
convicted on February 23 last year of kidnap
ing Mrs. Jackson and her five-year-old
daughter, Susan. On September 28 he was!
convicted and sentenced to death in Spotsyl-
vania, Virginia, for the murder of Carroll;
Jackson.
Obviously the law can’t grab every person
who acts strangely, or even dangerously, bu
has not been charged with a crime. Here the
responsibility—a frightening one to the Helen}
Mosers who have already been threatened]
with death—is on members of the person’s
family. The police can’t act until someone tie
the bell on the cat.
In an article on the “mad bombers” who}
terrorized New York, Dr. Banay declared:|
“It is only natural, especially among relatives}
and friends, to regard a mentally ill person as|
a harmless eccentric who would never hurt)
anyone. Many such individuals can recover)
with adequate treatment. But first they must}
be found. And possibly they may be prevented)
from becoming instruments of injury and)
death.”
In January, 1961, the mother of Thomas B.
Clark told police that doctors had warned his
family, after a toboggan accident fifteen years}
before, that he might have “nerve trouble”)
someday. The Thomas B. Clarks returned te|
Michigan January | from St. Louis, where!
Clark had been ‘“‘under tremendous pressure”
on a new job. '
“He looked like a walking corpse,” said al
friend who had known him for ten years. 5
On January 17 police found six corpses;)
none of them walking, in the Clarks’ new)
home in Grand Blanc. Tom Clark, “a likable}
fellow, but a bit peculiar,” had shot his wifes)
four children and himself.
His mother’s warning came too late. ;
No law could have saved Janet Clark and
her four children. But better laws or better
supervision, including psychiatric tests, might |
have saved the third wife of George Sacks.
Sacks had had the ‘“‘misfortune” to be a
widower before—not once, but twice. His
first wife burned to death in a Chicago apart-
ment more than thirty years before. Three
years later, in 1925, his second wife was
fatally shot in a taxi, and Sacks was indicted
for murder. He was declared insane and sent
to a state hospital. Seven years later, over the
objections of the staff psychiatrists, he was
released. In 1939 he turned up in Washington

|
J

CONTINUED ON PAGE 40

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State on suspicion of having murdered his
landlord. Apparently this wasn’t proved, be-
cause Sacks moved to Portland, Oregon, and
married a third time. Wife number three died
by asphyxiation, and so did Sacks—in the
Oregon gas chamber.

There are approximately 190,000 inmates
in prisons throughout the United States at
any given time. More than 60 per cent are
repeaters, and, says Dr. Banay in his book,
We Call Them Criminals, “Each time the
offender repeats, his crime becomes more
serious. Our prisons are factories that turn
out deadly human explosives. The emotional
time bombs in the personalities of the men and
women confined are not turned off; they go on
ticking. That these bombs will explode in
time, in new crimes worse than those expiated,
is almost certain.”

Paradoxically this is an argument for
parole—supervised parole. As Margaret
Grogan, administrative assistant to the chair-
man of the New York State Division of
Parole, puts it: “If you’ve got an eighteen-
year-old youth serving five to eight years for
rape, is it better to release him on parole
where he lives, under intense supervision, or to
keep him in prison for five years, then spring
him on the community without supervision?”

This is the parole board’s dilemma. J.
Edgar Hoover spoke last summer of “an
overzealous pity for the criminal and an
equivalent disregard for his victim.”

But Dr. Fredric Wertham, one of the most
noted experts on criminal psychiatry, points
out: “There is no fundamental difference be-
tween the interest of the individual and the
interests of society. We want to protect the
victim; but we also want to protect the
murderer from becoming a murderer.”

And Dr. David Abrahamsen, a consultant
to the New York State Department of Mental
Hygiene, adds: “One criterion for treating the
offender is how dangerous he is to society.”
This, Dr. Abrahamsen thinks, is more im-
portant than how great or small was his actual
crime.

What too many writers on the problems of
parole seem to overlook is that many prisoners
serving time for second-degree murder or
manslaughter are really guilty of first-degree
murder. Lawrence Moser was indicted for
first-degree murder when he killed his brother-
in-law in cold blood thirty-one years ago. But
for some reason, possibly his youth, he was
permitted to plead guilty to manslaughter.
Instead of death or life imprisonment, he
got 10 to 20 years, and was paroled in 7.

When the court permits a murderer to plead
guilty to a lesser charge, it not only spares his
life—perhaps a laudable thing in some in-
stances—but it also sets in motion the ma-
chinery that will release him to society. This
means that many men who come up for parole
are more dangerous than their sentences
indicate.

Jackie Robinson, the former baseball star,
resigned a couple of years ago from the
Connecticut Parole Board. ““We had to make
too many important decisions without know-
ing enough about the applicants,” he told me.

Nee criminals really crazy? Even psychia-
trists disagree on this.

In his recent book, The Mind of the Mur-
derer, Dr. Guttmacher tells of examining 175
murderers. He concluded that 70 of them were
insane, 105 of them sane.

“Anyone who commits a serious crime,
particularly murder, is apt to be suffering
from mental abnormalities,” says Dr. Bernard
L. Diamond, a member of the recently ap-
pointed California Commissions on Problems
of Insanity and the Criminal Offender. “*Many
murders and often rapes occur under special
circumstances of great passion. The circum-
stances aren’t likely to be repeated, and the
offender could be released after a relatively
short treatment and rehabilitation program.
Other cases have such deep-seated aggressive
urges that they never could be safely released.
The distinction between the two groups can
usually be made during a prolonged period of
observation. Unfortunately,” he concludes,
“prisoners are seldom used for such medical
observations.”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Part of the problem is that in most states
the law recognizes only the black-and-white
distinction between “‘sanity”’ and “‘insanity,’
Today psychiatrists are inclined to regard suc
classification as inadequate and inaccurate,

Dr. Banay scores “‘the old penal philosoph
which leans on the assumption that the crim-
inal must be either insane, and therefore not
responsible for his acts, or sane, and therefore
completely responsible. It does not recognize
that between these two extremes there can be
many gradations and varieties of emotional
disturbance causing delinquency.”

Dr. Wertham goes even further. He calls the
whole area of legal insanity “‘a jungle.”

Can psychiatrists really tell if an individual
is dangerous? Dr. Banay and Dr. Werthaga
say they can. Others are not so confident. g

Lawrence Moser was examined in prison
and was not diagnosed as mentally ill or too
dangerous to be released. Dr. Guttmacher,
who, of course, had nothing to do with Moser,
says now, “It is quite evident that Moser was
a very sick man. The fact that he spent seven
years in Sing Sing and was apparently not so
diagnosed is not remarkable. It is quite pos-
sible for very psychotic individuals to go un-
noticed in a penitentiary as long as their ab-
normalities do not make them disciplinary
problems.”

Both Helen Moser and Veronica From-
meyer, the neighbor Lawrence Moser attacked
with acid, say he would have “fooled” a
psychiatrist. Admittedly it’s hard for a doctor
to make an accurate diagnosis of an unwilling
subject. Dr. Diamond thinks this would be a

Te eer aa

When, at sixteen, | was vain because |
someone praised me, my father said:
“‘They are only praising your youth. You |
can take no credit for beauty at sixteen.
But if you are beautiful at sixty, it will be
your own soul’s doing. Then you may be
proud of it and be loved for it.’’

FROM THE CHANGE OF LIFE

IN MEN AND WOMEN, BY DR. MARIE STOPES.
COPYRIGHT 1936 BY DR. STOPES—
PUBLISHED BY G. P. PUTNAM'’S, N.Y.

serious obstacle to compulsory examination
of parolees: “‘It is difficult to prove or diagnose
mental illness if the person doesn’t want to be
so diagnosed.”’ Dr. Diamond also fears that
court or parole-board psychiatrists couldn’t
or wouldn’t spend the time or effort needed to
get the facts.

Although it is an everyday occurrence for
psychiatrists to be called in during a trial,
after a man has killed someone or committed
a violent crime, to give their opinions as to his
mental condition, there is a marked reluctance
on the part of the profession to put its neck
out and predict behavior.

“We are primarily doctors and not jailers,”
says Dr. Karl Menninger. “After an offender
has been treated in whatever groping and
uncertain ways the psychiatrist may have
attempted, what prophet wants to take the
responsibility of saying that the patient is well
and may be released and will do society no
more harm?”

The result is that the offender is often re-
leased without anyone taking responsibility
for his mental state. If it is possible to diagnose
mental illness affer a murder or a rape, why
can’t it be done before?

New York’s Commissioner of Correction
Paul D. McGinnis says bluntly, “The majority
of psychiatrists do not want to work in a °
criminal area. The salaries they would get are
not comparable to what they can make out-
side.”

Perhaps that is a little harsh. It may be
fairer to accept the explanation of Dr. Men-
ninger and of his associate, Dr. Herbert
Modlin, who says, ‘‘Psychiatrists are some-
times embarrassed by the enthusiasm among
their legal colleagues for their professional
assistance; and they occasionally back off in
alarm from the superman responsibilities
suggested for them.”

A number of states already require psychi-
atric examination of certain offenders at time

CONTINUED ON PAGE 117

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erfectly normal. |

Inanearnest effort to promote insight and understand-
ing (and to discourage people from calling each other
balmy), | herewith submit a Guide to Normal Behavior
| in Everyday Situations. Each case history depicts a
normal person behaving normally. Alternative behavior

in these situations must, | fear, be diagnosed as
abnormal. If you don’t agree, please don’t complain
to me. You’re woefully out of touch with reality.
Seek help from your friendly neighborhood psy-
chiatrist. Let’s get down to cases:

CASE NO. 1. Laura L, a thirty-
one-year-old housewife, an-
nounces that she is going down-
town to buy a pair of black kid
shoes, a new lipstick and some
of those paper towels that were
advertised in the paper.
NORMAL BEHAVIOR: Laura buys
a bright blue suit (marked
down one third), a little blue

hat to go with it, a bag to

match, a new lipstick, a jar of

moisturizing cream, and a bud
vase which will make a lovely
gift. She thriftily decides to
have her old shoes repaired in-
stead of buying new ones, and
she forgets all about the paper

towels.

CASE NO. 2. Jean D, a high-school
sophomore, states emphatically that
she wouldn’t join that stuck-up
Tikki Club for anything in the whole
wide world. Its members are a bunch
of snobs, and they never do any-

thing but gossip and run after boys.

NORMAL BEHAVIOR: When Jean
opens the invitation, she shrieks
with delight, telephones her best
friend to scream ecstatically, “‘Guess
what? I got a Tikki bid!” and tells
her mother with great earnestness
that the Tikkis are not only the most
popular kids in the whole school,
but a really intelligent and sincere

group of girls.

CASE NO. 3. Mr. Z. an honest
taxpayer. gets a telephone
eall from the Internal Rev-
enue Service. telling him to
appear the next morning and
bring all his eaneeled cheeks.

NORMAL BEHAVIOR: Mr. Z
claps his hand to his fore-
head. moans that heis ruined,
puts through a frantie eall to
his lawyer and spends a
sleepless night. seeing visions
of his wife and children visit-
ing him at Leavenworth.

CASE NO. 4. Sally C, a seven-
year-old, displays a fanatical in-
terest in the neighbors’ piano. She
spends endless hours teaching
herself to play little tunes like
Three Blind Mice by patiently pick-
ing out the notes. At considerable
sacrifice, her parents buy a piano
and engage the best music teacher
in town.

NORMAL BEHAVIOR: Sally im-
mediately loses all interest in the
piano and develops a passion for
horses. She is unable to under-
stand why her cruel parents re-
fuse to buy her a horse.

CASE NO. 5. Mr. and Mrs. P, a sub-
urban couple, are dressing for church.
Mrs. P, who has her hat on, tells her
husband to get the car started and
she'll be right out. All she has to do ts
powder her nose.

NORMAL BEHAVIOR: Mrs. P powders
her nose, grabs her gloves and purse
and walks to the front door, where she
suddenly decides that she should wear
her pink suit instead of the gray one
she has on. This change necessitates
switching her hat, bag, shoes and
gloves. After checking to see whether
there's enough bread for lunch and
writing a note to the milkman, she
dashes to the car and accuses her
husband of rushing her.

CASE No. 6. John T, a twenty-
six-year-old bachelor, insists
that he won’t marry until he
finds The Right Girl. She must
be sincere, intelligent, nice-
looking but not beautiful, and
she must share his enthusiasm
for contemporary art and pro-
gressive jazz.

NORMAL BEHAVIOR: He falls
madly in love with a ravishing
blonde who adores Lawrence
Welk and thinks Picasso is some

sort of Italian candy.

CASE NO. 7. Mrs. P. a young
housewife and mother. com-
plains at dinner that she’s
absolutely exhausted, her
head is splitting. and she in-
tends to go to bed the minute
she gets the children tucked
in. At seven-thirty the neigh-
bors phone, inviting the P’s
over to play bridge.

NORMAL BEHAVIOR: Mrs. P
ehirps gaily that they'd love
to come. she’s dying to get
out of the house and they'll
be over as soon as they can
round up a babys-sitter.

CASE NO. 8. Mr. and Mrs. C, a forty-
ish couple, are chatting over their after-
dinner coffee. Mrs. C tells Mr. C about
a conversation she had with her friend
Dorothy that morning. It seems that
Dorothy’s mother fell and broke her
hip. “‘That’s ashame,” says Mr. C, and
Mrs. C agrees that it certainly is, but
adds, “‘Broken hips aren’t as serious as
they used to be. They have a new way
of setting them.’’ Mr. C concurs, say-
ing, ‘“Yep, I’ve heard about that.” On
his way to the bank the next morning,
Mr. C meets Dorothy.

NORMAL BEHAVIOR: Mr. C.
home that evening and says to his wife,

“

arrives

Say, I bumped into Dorothy this
morning. Did you hear about her
mother’s accident? She broke her hip.”

CASE NO. 9. Mrs. S, a thirty-four-
year-old housewife, takes her elec-
tric blender to a repair shop to be
fixed. When the man behind the
counter tells her that it will be ready
in three days, Mrs. S looks aghast.
She whimpers that she can’t get
along without her blender, and im-
plores the man to fix it that very day.
After a conference with the man-
ager, the repairman tells Mrs. S that
she ean pick up her blender at five

o’clock that afternoon.

NORMAL BEHAVIOR: Mrs. S comes

for her blender ten days later.

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j HE selor so distressing as that of the
pregnant single girl. Everyorte

the boy (despite

what mayseemcal-

guilty, with no one to turn to, and

utterly helpless. Most often her

DO? tion first off—for reasons moral, legal,
: perhaps personal and just from plain

or another, he stands by her from beginning to end.
The first step is to arrange a confidential test for the

concerned is bound to

t INWED suffer—the girl’s par-
lousness and _ bra-

vura) and the girl

only thought is to be rid of the

pregnancy—to undergo abortion.

common sense. Besides, the counselor anticipates, as
the girl does not, the probable emotional aftermath for
girl who thinks she is pregnant. These tests are easy,
quick and inexpensive, as well as worth while, for in

Few problems come to the coun-

ents, the boy’s parents,

herself. She feels trapped, usually

ae few counselors assent to an abor-
her. This is not to say he abandons the girl. One way
about a third of the cases the fears prove groundless.

A WIFE'S TEN TOP PEEVES

Surveying our records, we tabulated the “‘pet peeves”’
mentioned by wives in the last year, and found that
most of them fell into ten categories.

He disrupts my household schedule.

‘He gets home late for meals (or arrives unexpect-
edly early and demands dinner at once) . . . takes the
car on marketing days... brings guests home without
warning... starts a big disorderly project just when I
have planned for guests ... disappears for weekends
when he has agreed to attend to chores and repairs;
asks at the last minute that something be pressed.”

He neglects chores and repairs.

“Not only on weekends but also during the week. I
don’t expect him to help with the wash or do the cook-
ing, but I do expect him to mow the lawn, replace the
fuse, fix the leaking faucet—or call a repairman, for
heaven's sake. It wouldn’t hurt him to take the chil-
dren off my hands once in a while either.”’

He leaves the children to me.

“He expects me to provide discipline, supervise
schoolwork, arrange playmates and social life, answer
their questions and give them some taste of intellec-
tual life. When he gets home, all he expects to do is
retreat to the paper or television. Surely there’s more
to being a father than that?”

Indeed there is. All the same, this wife and others
should remember that some wives (unwittingly or
otherwise) shut their children out of their husbands’
lives in a mistaken idea of efficiency.

He takes me for granted.

“Whatever I do, my husband views it only as my
duty. However hard I try to please him, he never
praises me. If he would only pat me on the shoulder or
give me a hug when I do some little favor for him. I’m
supposed to build him up all the time, but he never
compliments me.”

A majority of wives felt that they are less appre-
ciated than they deserve. So do husbands! Let wives
take a tip from that.

He slights me in public.
“He never takes my coat, or helps me on with it. ...
He doesn’t hold the door for me, or open the car

By CLIFFORD R. ADAMS, Ph.D., Pennsylvania State University, Department of Psychology

MAKING MARRIAGE WORK

But suppose, as in Nora’s case, the test is positive.
Then her dilemma is the same, perhaps intensified by
an interval of faint hope.

The best solution, usually, is marriage as quickly
as possible. If the couple are mature, love each other,
and circumstances permit, sometimes such marriages
work out very happily. But the chances are against it,
for statistics show that in forced marriages the divorce
rate is much higher than among the general public.
But marriage may be worth while, even with the pos-
sibility of separation or divorce, for the sake of legit-
imating the child, escaping the stigma, and enabling
the mother (or father) to keep the child.

But sometimes one of the couple refuses, or both, as
circumstances seem insurmountable, and the parents
may oppose the match. Then what?

That was Nora’s situation. She no longer felt she
loved John (though he was eager to marry her); she
was bent on a career; and her parents, especially her
mother (John was somewhat her “‘inferior”’ socially),
were set against the match.

Finally, however, she yielded to persuasion and they
were married, with the understanding that she would
have an abortion anyway. This she did—they were
able to find a practitioner —and Nora took up her mar-
riage with no thought of making it succeed. Concen-

door. . . . He interrupts when I am talking. . . . He
never lights a cigarette for me. . . . He never gets re-
freshments for me at a party. . . . He constantly
criticizes my bridge game (as good as his).”’

These are petty things, but they do add up to a
wife’s feeling of being demeaned, held in little regard.
Easy to forgive, perhaps, but easy to correct, surely.

He is unfair about money.

“My husband spends his money as he pleases, but I
have to account for the last nickel. He says he keeps
track in his head. His beer and pool cost as much as
my food allowance. .. . He spends $2.50 a week on
cigarettes, but can’t understand why I need to go to
the hairdresser once a month. .. . He spends enough on
an evening with the boys to buy me a new dress.”

These grievances add up and, if they all came from
the same wife, would amount to a major source of
friction.

He ts too interested in other women.

“He ogles every pretty girl he sees. . . . He com-
ments constantly on other women’s pretty legs or
figure. .. . He admires a form-fitting dress without see-
ing what I have on. . .. He comments favorably on the
girls he used to date.”

But he married you. This kind of thing may be hard
to take, but unless carried to extremes it usually
means little.

He is sloppy.

“Need I go on? He drops the paper by his chair. . . .
He never rinses a milk glass after the dinner dishes are

done. . . . He drops underwear and socks on the
floor... . He splatters the bathroom mirror every time
he brushes his teeth. .. . He drops whatever he is look-

ing at wherever he is when he is finished.”
Most men do some of these things, some all. You'll
either have to housebreak him, or grin and bear it.

He criticizes me to his parents.

Unless this is harmless teasing, this does not really
come under the heading of minor complaints. When a
husband takes his problems to his mother instead of to
his wife, or when he fails to support her in a major dis-
agreement, he is neither being fair to his wife nor lay-
ing a foundation for a happy marriage.

But surely you can take it if he kids you a little
about your fussing over the dinner table when guests
are coming, for instance?

trated on preparing for a career, indifferent to John
and their home, she has filed action for divorce. But
who can say that the outcome might not have been
different had Nora’s attitude been more constructive?

Abortion is the most usual solution to the prob-
lem of unmarried pregnancy. But there are other abe
ternatives. Probably the best, particularly if the parentg
lend their support, is to have the baby and place it for
adoption. Emotionally upsetting though severance |
may be, in the long run both baby and mother will
probably make a better adjustment.

The final solution is, of course, to have the baby and
rear it. But in most middle-class families this is not a
practical possibility, for the sake of the mother, her
parents or the baby himself.

It will be apparent throughout these remarks that
the parents play a crucial role. Whatever their heart-
break and shame, this is not the time for recrimination
and reproach, and “ Where did we go wrong?”’ The
girl is already heartbroken and ashamed on their ac-
count as well as on her own, and she knows that she |
went wrong. She needs their love, understanding and |
practical support. She needs to feel that she still has
the family shelter. If such a sorrow should ever come
to you, see that you provide these things. Otherwise, a
tragic situation will only become worse.

He doesn’t talk to me.

Though men vary greatly in their ability to share
ideas and feelings, nearly every wife who makes this
complaint must share some of the blame. Communi-
cation is sharing, and it is crucial.

Whatever your complaints about your husband,
examine your share in exaggerating them. If he had all
of them when you married him, perhaps you are not
doing your share in modifying them. But if you have
tried five years, and failed, then you will either have to
accept his faults or convince yourself that his good
qualities more than compensate.

ASK YOURSELF: |
Will He Be Hard to Live With?

A crucial qualification for marriage is emotional |
stability or social maturity. Early in her dating of any
man to whom she may be strongly attracted, a girl
should make sure that he is not unstable, asocial or
neurotic. Honest “Yes’’ or “No” answers to these
questions may help her understand instability and
how it can be recognized.

Ts he:

1. Rather jealous and demanding ? |
. Often selfish and inconsiderate ?

. Dissatisfied, restless or overambitious ?

. Moody and hard to understand ? \
. Indifferent to the opinions of others?
. Overly concerned about sex?

. Often inconsistent or unpredictable ?

We Go BS

NOG

Does he: %
8. At times twist or evade facts ?
9. Have trouble making or holding friends ?
10. Seem to resent custom or authority?
11. Act without regard of consequences ?
12. Often create a bad impression?
13. Have habits which annoy his friends ?
14. Hold radical or unconventional views ?

On rare occasions or under extreme provocation,
any individual might display one or two of these dis-
tortions. But if several of these negative ways of be-—
having are habitual or ingrained, the possibility of
serious instability should not be ignored. Why not also
ask these same questions about yourself? If you have
four or five ‘“ Yeses’” it may help explain why your
courtship or marriage is less successful than you wish.

_ 2

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What makes a good party? Can children be taught courtesy? What is tact?

Stes the ah dhe she She she

Are good manners becoming rarer? Because they contribute so much
to the pleasure and dignity of living, we believe they are more neces-
sary than ever in today’s unpredictable, crisis-crammed world. By
way of reply to this query, Princess Lee Radziwill, the beautiful
younger sister of Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy, who lives in London
with her Polish husband and two small children, speaks informally
here on several aspects of modern manners which she believes are
being neglected. Two of them have a special interest for her: enter-
taining, and children’s manners. From what she has to say we think
it safe to draw one firm conclusion: no matter what changes take
place in social traditions (and there have been tremendous ones in
recent years), the essentials of good manners never really change.

ty Doe ie Kadgiwitl ;

I think a person’s true manners are revealed immediately by his
way of meeting people. This social ritual can be performed so grace-
fully and easily, but many people ignore its importance, and create an
unfortunate first impression by a careless and indifferent greeting.
True, the formula of handshake and “‘How do you do?” is a rigid one,
- as fixed asa military salute, but you can and should make it meaning-
ful. Say the words with sincerity instead of indifference, and look the
person in the eye as you shake hands with him or her.

It is hard, if you’re at a large party or in a receiving line, to repeat
parrotlike, “How do you do?” but no substitute has been invented
and the problem is the same in all languages. One should make an
effort to smile, to really look at the person one is greeting, and to
speak with warmth and expression.

Famous or distinguished people? How would I greet them? The
same way—with a firm handshake and a tone of respect. The person
who has truly good manners doesn’t have a special set for celebrities
‘and another set for humbler people.

I think one should stand up to be introduced, especially when one
is meeting a distinguished or elderly person. Young people and chil-
dren should always rise when elders enter a room.

Once you have met a person, the problem begins of what to talk
about. A universal approach to conversation, and especially to conver-
sation with new acquaintances, is to ask people questions—not per-
‘sonal questions—about themselves and to be a good and patient
listener to their answers. I like to talk with one person about things
which are meaningful to me or to him. General conversation I find

hat are ‘good manners’ but treating people as you would like to have them treat you?”

ee es, C.
MANNERS.

SP Spe Ge Ce ee ae a

more difficult; but when you are giving a party, it is often easier and
more pleasant to bring everyone into the conversation, especially at
the beginning.

General conversation is a good icebreaker. Finding a subject to talk
about is not difficult—so much happens these days, we are all held to-
gether by the same problems. One can begin with the latest world
crisis, a play, a movie, the current best seller, a favorite TV program.
No one should be left out—a hostess should be ready to draw in some-
one who seems excluded with a ““What do you think?”

There are other problems too. It seems that almost everything is
controversial today —politics, foreign policy, national issues, religion.
Even a play or a painting that most people are enthusiastic about may
have a hostile critic in the company. A good hostess must be careful
that discussion does not lead to too loud or unpleasant an argument;
she learns to change a subject tactfully before enemies are made and
feelings are hurt, and how to ease a tense atmosphere, perhaps by of-
fering to refill glasses, or by suggesting a move into another room.

This brings us to the question of what constitutes bad manners in
conversation. The laws of good taste and charity rule out malicious
gossip. You can be sure that those who say damaging things about
others to you will say derogatory things about you to others, too, and
I think the best thing to do is to stay a little away from these people.

It is also impolite as well as boring to try to monopolize a conversa-
tion, to proclaim opinions and convictions too often or too loudly,
especially ones you know are different from those held by others in the
room, and therefore possibly very irritating to some in the company.

Direct personal questions, like “How old are you?”’... “Is your
husband with you?” are bad manners because they can be embar-
rassing. And don’t discuss your health and physical condition, opera-
tions you have had or are going to have, financial or domestic worries.
Why ? Because it is boring to other people, who have to live with
similar problems of their own.

Common sense and a little ordinary thoughtfulness will keep you
from making conversational blunders. In fact, I think that with this
approach you can handle any social situation successfully.

Parties? The first thing I’d say is: do your worrying before the
party begins. The nervous hostess who spends her time in the kitchen
and looks around the room with a worried face while she talks to her
guests makes them feel ill at ease. Start working the day before. Clean
your house or apartment; organize the silver, china, napkins you are

going to use; check on cigarettes, guest CONTINUED ON PAGE 130

”

A man would have to be a saint before Adam would let him marry his daughter.

There are two stories about the way Adam Dwain
started out in the Green Valley, and those who knew
him could accept either version—he was that kind of
man. The story goes that Adam rode into Green
Flats during the worst dry spell the Oklahoma Ter-
ritory had ever known. He was a young man, rode a
black horse then and always afterward, and all he
had was his horse, his bedroll, and a string of cattle
numbering about fifteen.

There wasn’t any water in Green Flats. Folks
with wells were rationing water to their own stock.
Crops were gone to dust. Everywhere you turned
there was a kind of dry stillness, even people’s faces
had a dark-eyed, hollow look; and when Adam rode
in asking for water there wasn’t a place he could
turn to. There was supposed to be a water hole
in the meadow about two miles from town, and
they told him to push out that way. If it rained, he
might save his herd. They let him fill his canteen,
and they watched him stirring dust as he headed
along the dry riverbed.

What happened when he got to the water hole was
the part no one knows about for sure. People agree
that Adam and his cattle made it to the hole and
found it dry. The cattle pawed up the ground, but
there wasn’t enough moisture there to muddy a hoof.
The Green River was rock-bottom dry all the way
along, but Adam kept his herd moving anyway. The
steers were dragging and his horse was moving head
down. It was a beating kind of day, the sun was fire-
hot, the sky was a hard bright blue, the ground was
packed solid, and the dust rose in chokiag clouds as
the herd moved along.

The riverbed began to twist about three miles out
of town, and Adam pushed his cattle in the hope of
getting them into some shade. There was a chance
he would run into some scrub grazing around the
rocks at the riverbank, but a lesser man would have
given up. He must have been about two miles up
from the water hole when he came to the place where
the mountain met the river. It wasn’t much of a
mountain, just some bare rock jutting up against the
sky and flat land lying at the base. The kind of land
that made for good grazing when the river was up.

Adam let his herd rest there in the shadow of the
mountain. There wasn’t much use in trying to move
them any farther. There was nothing ahead but
rocks, and more white sun, and dry ground. Adam
sat his horse and looked at his cattle, and then he
raised his head to the mountain and he began to
shout. He had a powerful voice and it rang up
against the rocks and bounded back to mock him.

But he was a big man, and a proud man, and
he didn’t flinch. “Lord, Lord,’”’ he shouted, ‘open
the rocks and let me have some water. Fill this
valley with water and anybody who comes this way
can stop here. It’s my word, Lord. Nobody will
ever lack for water when they come this way.”

Adam shouted and bargained with the Lord, and
then suddenly the mountain opened up and water
began to rush down the sides of the rocks and into
the gully; just a trickle, then a great torrent, and the
rocks tumbled along the sides of the mountain and
made a dam there at the base of the hill, and soon
there was a great reservoir of water on that land.

People who know Adam well say it happened this
way. All the rest will tell you there was a rockslide
that afternoon. Cattle trampling up the riverbed
jarred the mountainside, shaking boulders loose so
that they came rumbling down, making a dam
across the river and uncovering some underground
spring that bubbled out and filled the river.

But no matter how it happened, Adam Dwain set-
tled on that land, and he never turned anybody
away from his water. When the rest of the country
was parched, and men were driving cattle up from
Texas, Adam’s ranch was an oasis. He became a
kind of legend. People said a rattler could rise up in
the dust and Adam’s black horse would rear and
whinny as if it were going to break loose, but Adam
would just rein in and roar out, “Go on, brother,
there’s water up ahead, go along and help yourself.”’
That’s how he was about the water.

The Green Valley was good to Adam. It had been
named long ahead of him for the river that ran low
in the dry season and turned to green scum. But
after Adam came and water poured out of the
mountain and the rocks dammed the river, the val-
ley itself turned green. His herd increased so that in
ten years’ time he was as big a rancher as any. He
married a girl from town, and they had a baby girl.
That was the only way life short-changed him. One
girl seemed a pretty thin reward for the kind of life
he led; but to hear him talk, she was more than
enough. Some folks said it was almost a sin the way
Adam worshiped that child, he was that proud of her.

If ever a child looked like her father, it was Dicie
Dwain. She was the spit of her pa. Her hair was
black and filled with shine, like sun hitting water.
She had a proud way of standing, and her voice was
the kind that made you feel good just to listen. She
was riding right along with Adam from the time she
was six, and that’s how she met Cole Wilson.

She was about seventeen then, a beautiful girl.
Adam wasn’t blind to the way men looked at her,
and if she hadn’t been so much like him he might
have worried about her. As it was, he figured sfe
wouldn’t settle for anything that wasn’t worthy of
her, and he knew he was the man to judge that.

She learned all the things a woman is supposed to
know from her mother, but there was no keeping her
away from the range. Adam always saw that she was
well mounted, and when she was sixteen he gave her
a sorrel mare. The mare and the girl made a picture
as they flew over the ground. But riding wasn’t all
Dicie could do.

CONTINUED ON PAGE 96

Dicie had her love, and her father broke his bargain with the Lord.

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There were many elderly women, spinsters or widows,
who had nest eggs

and no one to investigate

when they suddenly...

left Mrs. Marrable’s employ.

By URSULA CURTISS

The
rorniacen Garden

Mrs. Marrable buried Miss Tinsley ona leafy yellow day in late October.
Only the evening before, Miss Tinsley had looked quite well, or as
well as she ever looked. Like a number of wispy people, Miss Tinsley
had a quiet, evasive strength of her own; it had shown itself as she sat
sewing in the living room after dinner. She said to the spread newspaper
which was all she could see of her employer, “Is there any news about
my stock yet? It’s been’’—she put the sewing down to count on her
fingers—‘‘eight days now.”
The newspaper came down from before Mrs. Marrable’s small,

“

pouched, imperious face. ‘“Miss Tinsley,’’ she said measuredly, “a
woman in your position has no business in the stock market, and so I
told you at the time. But nothing would do you but that you would
invest in it, and now you want daily quotations. Perhaps you'd like
me to have your stock sold for you at once, even if you take a loss?”’

“Oh, no,” said Miss Tinsley hastily, and lapsed into silence.

But she was like crab grass, never really quelled, only cropping up
quietly and victoriously in another spot. Behind Mrs. Marrable’s eyes,
hooded like a clever turtle’s, a number of thoughts moved, busy but
orderly. There was going to be a lot to do tomorrow.

The next day Mrs. Marrable was outdoors early, giving brisk in-
structions to the tall Hopi Indian who came once a week. “Juan, I’ve
ordered a poplar; I want to extend that line. If you’ll dig” —she paced
the lawn—‘‘just here. I want a good deep hole, mind; the roots must
have room. When you’re sure you’ve dug deep enough, dig another
foot—you know me and my trees.”’

Juan cast an outwardly impassive, inwardly admiring glance at the
line of poplars, deep gold against the pastel New Mexico sky. Before
Mrs. Marrable had re-entered the house he was at work with the shovel.

At her desk Mrs. Marrable examined bills with a piercing eye, wrote
checks, and burned Miss Tinsley’s references in the fireplace.

She left the house at three o’clock, rigidly upright at the wheel of
the Cadillac, and was back shortly after four. A more discerning eye
than Miss Tinsley’s might have noticed that the canvas shopping bag
that went everywhere with her employer seemed heavier than usual.
The gardener had left, and a young poplar in its burlap ball leaned
against a corner of the house.

“T want to get that in right away. I might need you to give me a

hand,” said Mrs. Marrable briskly. Miss

CONTINUED ON PAGE 99

THE JOURNAL’S COMPLETE-IN-ONE-ISSUE CONDENSED NOVEL. © 1962 BY URSULA CURTISS.
““THE FORBIDDEN GARDEN” ISSOON TO BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK FORM BY DODD, MEAD & CO.

The mailbox flap gleamed dully, twice. Mrs. Dimmock reappeared briefly on

the road, and mingled with the shadows. There was no sound above the wind.

“SHOW US HOW TO

The words ‘“‘beautiful’’ and ‘‘you’’ spoken (to-

gether) are the most delightful and heartwarming

words a woman can hear. The joy they bring is

enormous; their power is immense, as men must
know. Moved by these words, even an average

woman is stirred to new, unbelieved-in beauty.

Yet where shall she begin? How shall she dis-

cover herself in the rich resources of beauty aids

so enticing, so lavish, so varied, which are spread

BE BEAUTIFU

before her today? The Journal’s nationwide surve } "
of young women between 16 and 21 reveals tha}
more than 50 percent feel they do not make thi}!
most of their looks, that 88 percent of these youn)!
women turn to magazines as their chief adviser yp)
and guides to new beauty. pe Y
**T don’t know how to use eye shadow”... . ““Mi
hair is drab”... ‘‘Should I use brown or blae
mascara with hazel eyes?”’

TH E DAYTI M E LOOK PHOTOGRAPHS BY KAREN RADKIPP

|The young woman who is thinking in these and scented, whose eyes are dramatic and inviting,
irms is already started on her path to beauty. whose lips and fingers are rosy, is rejoiced in her
‘he mascara she chooses to wear for her next date own heart—and rejoices those about her.

sill make her lashes look longer and more allur- The Journal is happy to answer its readers’ cry,
ig, but also she will be more beautiful because “Show us how to be beautiful,” in this and other
me will feel beautiful and this will give her the articles based on the questions our readers bring
idiance that is beauty’s glow. ““Ointment and __ to their favorite and trusted magazine. What are
Iprfume rejoice the heart,” says Proverbs 27, women’s biggest makeup problems? See page 110
srse 9, and the young woman whose skin is soft for the Journal’s answers.

; DESIGNS BY MR. KENNETH TH = BIG DATE

ANY WHELEE.
EVERYWHERE:
ANTI i

}

%
we

By WILHELA CUSHMA

FASHION EDI?

The best strategy for any wardrobe
to have a suit like one of these
beautiful neutral that will be gs

cessful for most seasons, and

most occasions. It’s the clevere
clothes scheme always to have sud
asuit. This kind of fashion never brea
a rule, has its own sort of fashion da
zle—terrific authority and rightnes

Strategy in beige: grainy tweed wi
surprise gold buttons has own belt
wear (a fashion point) or not. By Da
Kidd of Arthur Jablow. Neckla
by David Webb doubles as a bracele

Below left: The most disarming suit i
gray wool jersey with Val lace at th
neckline—how contradictory can yo
be, and how divine! The wearer beé
lieves in femininity! By Jane Derb

Below right: Navy blue prevails, ha
the youthful appeal of no collar, gol
buttons arranged on the diagonal. B

Philippe Tournaye of Marquise. Wea
it with a straw-color fez by Madcaps

Facing page, left: Great fashion in t
short double-breasted white piq
overblouse combined with the colla
less navy-blue suit by Adele Simpso
No one has ever dreamed up anythin
to equal the freshness of this com
bination. White straw beret by Emme
lily-of-the-valley pin, Hattie Carnegie

Right: The black-and-off-white twee
is the long-term kind of suit tha

becomes more loved with every wear

ing, has specific aptitude for travel.

Philippe Tournaye of Marquise. Com

plete it with Hattie Carnegie’s blade

straw roller, Jacomo’s patent- -leathe

bag, Seaman Schepps’s gold bracelet

Poprnr

yrditetar ese

je say that color is vital, that it makes you
unger and prettier, that it has more zing
han ever this year. Fashion has color—in the
jpe suit, the stole suit, the overblouse
tweeds

)stume, combining with

ad chiffons.

By WILHELA CUSHMAN FASHION EDITOR

prints

|
/\pring lilacs in the shade of the silk overblouse
jad lining and the fleck of the tweed. The

png-coat suit is here again, an adroit fashion
\ q

PHOTOGRAPHS BY WILLIAM BELL

giving you an extra coat for other costumes
to wear from now on. By Adele Simpson.

us torspring tt Hower colors!

charms outrageously. Double bowknot pin by
Robert Carp. Both suits by Adele Simpson.

Daffodil tweed (below left)—every day is a great
day for this irresistible suit with the short
One
jewelry—gold-and-diamond bracelet by David

Webb. A

jacket and open neckline.

patent-leather bag by Jacomo.

Below right: The color of coral geraniums, this
silk-and-worsted suit has the new outlook,

piece of

Below center: A poppy-color cape suit and
another the color of garden pinks with a
printed silk blouse. Observant young women
will choose these flower colors early and wear
them straight through spring, with casual
berets and rollers and good gold jewelry. Feather
pin by Brania; brushed-gold link bracelet
by Seaman Schepps; both suits by Stefan.

is full of beautiful detail

By NORA O'LEARY, PATTERNEDITOR |

It might be a bow on your sleeve, an amusing si
closing, or it could be a blouse with a charming coi
collar. These beautiful details are all unmista’
Paris touches. These line-for-line copies by DIO
LANVIN CASTILLO and GUY LAROCHE should be an¢
spiration for your spring sewing and a real boon
your wardrobe. Each picture is a complete costum
both of the suits have blouses; the red silk, a jack f

This very feminine dress and jacket (right) was
signed by Lanvin Castillo. The waistline of the sle
less dress rises in front, dips in back. The jacket
a bow on the sleeve. Vogue POM Design No. 113

A wool jersey coat is a year-round fashion. Th
lovely Lanvin Castillo design (left) has a becomir
wide collar and large pockets. Make a printed si
dress towearunderneath. Vogue POM Design No. 113;

The house of Dior designed this charming costu i
(right). The jacket buttons to the side and faster
with self loops. The skirt is slim and the sleevele
blouse is pale turquoise. Vogue POM Design No. 111

Guy Laroche, famous for his youthful suits, designe
our collarless yellow tweed with short-sleeved jerse
overblouse (far right). The jacket has diagonal pod
ets and brass buttons. Vogue POM Design No. 112!

af
ol

Other views, sizes, prices of Vogue Patterns are on Page It

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|

|
|
|

HOW DOES SHE LOOK SO PRETTY
AND NOT SPEND A FORTUNE?

MRS JAMES
GAVIN -~

basics to live
in and love
and wear

for ten years.
My biggest
fashion

problem

is time.

BY BET HART

When Ambassador and Mrs. Gavin first arrived
in Paris, many of the clothes Mrs. Gavin
brought with her were old stand-bys. Her ward-
robe consisted of costumes “‘to count on, I like
to buy things I love, then wear them until they
are completely worn out.”

Mrs. Gavin acquired her fashion convictions
and learned the importance of good basics as
an Army wife. “We moved eight times in the
course of ten years.” The Gavins have lived in
Italy, Germany, North Carolina, Chicago;
Wellesley, Mass.; and Washington. “I used to
make most of my children’s clothes and many
of my own. My coats and suits I have always
bought because they require expert tailoring.
With four children it is impossible to spend
very much on your own clothes.”

Mrs. Gavin, 5/5” tall, is a perfect size 10
except for “my hip problem. If the dress is
an inexpensive one, I must get a size larger.”
Mrs. Gavin bought a bright blue coat and a
beige suit in the fall, later added a blue wool
dress. All are classics that will go on for

5
years. CONTINUED ON PAGE 120

Mrs. Gavin with three of her four daughters: Patricia,
Aileen and Chloe. New blue wool dress has classic

lines she loves, “a dress I can wear almost any where.”

“My favorite for daytime wear is a suit.” Mrs. Gar in’'s
beige tweed bought in the fall will be just as wearable
for spring. Skirt is slightly flared “‘for easier walking.”

BY ROGER PRIGENT

PHOTOGRAPHS

SHAPING TRE BOS...

Young married women, 18 and over, here answer the questions that everyone asks o 1
marriage and money, sex and religion, love and beauty, husbands and housework. This
is the second Journal study-in-depth by Dr. George Gallup of The Woman’s Mind, revealin g
what the young American woman is thinking and doing, hoping and planning. Our young
wives represent the upper two thirds of the country in income and education. Next month i
our continuing survey will reveal the attitudes of young mothers across the oul

__..FORESHADOWING THE’70°S

Only one woman in ten recognizes her husband
as the same man he was before she married
him. Nine out of ten say he’s changed. One in
three says he’s changed for the worse.

A 22-year-old Kentucky belle discovered
the man she married was “‘tempered, selfish,
demanding, lazy and conceited.’ But, she
added, he offered one wife-saving surprise:
‘‘He has more money than I thought he did.”’
Another young wife said simply, ‘‘I learned he
was a brute.”’ Still more of them discovered
‘better, kinder, more See husbands
than they expected. Typically, a Montana
wife said, ““My guy’s one of the best and
I’m lucky to have him.”

Almost half of the young marrieds quarrel
over money at least “‘sometimes’’—and one in
twelve, ‘‘often.’’ But most have designed ways
to handle money without bickering.

“‘T handle the money,” one young wife said
as a solution. “If a bill went unpaid or we
were overdrawn, he would stomp and scream.
Therefore, I’m careful and he’s quiet.’ On
the other hand, a Virginia wife said, “‘He
handles it all, does all the shopping, and gives
me an allowance to spend any way I want.”

Nearly four wives in ten said they wished
they’d known more about sex before mar-
riage—and almost half said married sex came
as “‘something of a surprise.’’ Only 13 percent
approved of premarital sexual relations for a
woman even with a man she plans to marry.

One young married woman said she would
advise a son,
girl you would be ashamed to marry.” An-
other felt that if a boy wants sex, ‘“‘He can buy
it and not experiment at the risk of making
some young girl pregnant.” The majority
would agree with this 27-year-old: “I would
tell my daughter that marriage is sacred. That
being a virgin is the greatest gift a woman can
give her husband.” As to sons, several agreed

“‘Never have intercourse with a

with the Knoxville wife who said it was good
for them to have experience before marriage:
‘“That’s when a boy becomes a man.”

Even though they got their men, our young
marrieds, like their single sisters in our Janu-
ary survey of The Woman’s Mind by Dr.
Gallup, are unsure of their appearance. Fully
half of them don’t think they make the
most of what they have.

Many would accept the analysis of this
Maryland wife: ‘‘I don’t have time! Keeping
a house clean, entertaining, working with the
church and civic groups keeps me running.”
One wise 22-year-old said, ‘““Before marriage,
it was important to interest a man. After mar-
riage, it’s important to keep him interested.”
FOR BETTER...

Marriage, for the most part, was roundly
endorsed for many happy reasons. Almost
every young wife we talked to felt that she
was kinder now and more understanding.
Marriage had improved them as individuals,
they said. They were happier married than sin-
gle. More than half even felt they were more
attractive now than they were before marriage.

Many said the companionship of marriage
was of greatest importance to them—‘“‘some-
one to share life with” ... “the feeling of
belonging to someone.”’ Some simply said,
‘“My husband’’—and one young wife added,
‘because we are still very much in love.”’

A young wife from Oregon declared her
pleasure was ‘“‘doing things for the most im-
portant man in my life.”” Another told us,
“After seven years, my husband says, ‘You
look real nice, honey.’”’

The responsibilities of marriage were a
source of pleasure to several young wives—
“the feeling of doing something”’ “‘a sense
of purpose”’ ‘“‘a feeling I’m needed.” A
number said “my home—my lovely home”
was the reward of a good marriage.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

fil

Several expressed highly individual reasons
for their happiness in marriage. Only 19 yea s
old, a Midwesterner said, ‘‘Getting my h !
band through college on a shoestring.” A re-
cent bride from New Orleans found satisfa ,
tion in “knowing there’s somebody | don’t
have to pretend for.”’ And a 20-year-old: “Ani
exuberant sense of the comic aspects of iife.”

. OR FOR WORSE |
ust the same, many readily volunteered}
that marriage wasn’t altogether a bed of or-| |
ange blossoms. In fact, only one in four found) |
no disappointments at all in marriage. Nearly}
half said they lose their tempers more fre-
quently now, largely for these reasons in this}}
order: husbands, money, loneliness, responsi-
bility, in-laws, sex, housework, lack of chil-
dren, and numerous other reasons.

Disillusionment came as a shock: “‘Learn-
ing that my husband was just a human being |
and not perfect.” . . . “Having to give UB my| i
poetic approach fei love and romance.”’ . . .jf)
“To find that marriage isn i what I had read |
about and seen in movies.” . . . “Not as muchif}
excitement as when you’re Sale

Age was on the minds of several, cummin |
up by a Connecticut wife: “I was too young}
when I married.” ‘i

A 26-year-old spoke for a number of womely )
when she said, ‘‘I am satisfied to stay homey 1
but wish my husband would more often.”’ Andjf
another: ‘‘I don’t see as much of my husband}
now as I did when we were dating.”

And one young wife typified many when|
she lamented, ‘‘I wish he would take me out
dining or dancing once in a while.” An 18-| |
year-old summed up the troubles for several: |
‘““My in-laws live with us.” |
THE MAN SHE MARRIED

Husbands, more often than not, surprised |
these young wives with both good and bad
characteristics. CONTINUED ON PAGE 124 | }

3Y JAY MAISEL

“Before marriage, you have to interest a man; after, you must keep him interested.’

‘I don’t see as much of my husband now as when we were dating . . . constant conflict with in-laws.” ‘““We don’t quarrel about money; we don’t have any.”

This winter, quite a few people around the Emory University campus in
Atlanta, Georgia, have been noticing a dark-haired young woman who
looks astonishingly like Mrs. John F. Kennedy. Her name is Mary Lynn
Morrill, and she’s usually in too big a hurry to notice the stares. Married
just six months, Mary Lynn combines homemaking with teaching home
economics and history in De Kalb County’s large, modern Briarcliff High
School; what time is left over she spends decorating the attractive duplex
apartment where she and her husband Dan, a graduate student at Emory,
have been living since their wedding last summer.

In spite of her busy schedule, Mary Lynn’s easy drawl suggests that
she has all the time in the world, and isn’t a bit disconcerted by the prob-
lems of adjusting to a new city, a new job, anew home and a new husband.
“Atlanta is an exciting city to live in, and I love teaching! Of course Dan
and I have known each other since childhood; we learned ages ago to get
along without fighting. If he gets tired of fried chicken or hamburger,
he doesn’t complain—though he does tease me about bargain hunting. I
guess I do put a lot of emphasis on money. Daddy’s like that—he con-
serves on little things, and saves for important things, like my wedding.
Even if it did cost $700, I’m glad it went just the way we planned!”

It was only last summer that Mary Lynn Caldwell sat on the shady
front porch of her parents’ comfortable brown-and-white house in Char-
lotte, North Carolina, and described her forthcoming wedding to her
twin brothers, while Dan Lincoln Morrill, her tall fiancé, listened in to
OK the plans.

“It’s going to be just the way I’ve always dreamed it,’”’ Mary Lynn
said. “‘Aunt Louise will make the wedding cake, family friends will put
up the bridesmaids and out-of-town guests. I’ll be married in a white
satin dress with a mantilla veil and chapel train, and I’ll walk down the
aisle on daddy’s arm to Here Comes the Bride. V1l have eight attendants,
counting the junior bridesmaids, and Bishop Spaugh will perform the
ceremony. There’ll be a reception on the church lawn, and then Dan and
I will drive off to Atlanta fr

“And forget all about us!’ teased David, one of the twins.

Dan, remembering all too clearly how he had had to “‘court’”’ David
and Douglas as well as Mary Lynn, observed that there was little danger
of her forgetting them.

“We scared off all Mary Lynn’s other boyfriends with cap pistols,”
said Doug with satisfaction. ‘“‘But ole Dan here won us over.”

“Just don’t play any tricks at the wedding,’ Mary Lynn warned. “If
you paint things on the car, just remember Dan and I can’t afford to
have it washed for months.”

“If we mess it up too bad we'll leave a dollar bill on the dashboard
to pay for washing it,’’ David promised.

At the far end of the porch, Mr. and Mrs. David Franklin Caldwell
listened indulgently. It would have been hard to find a mother and father
more approving of an approaching marriage—except perhaps the James
Roy Morrills, of Winston-Salem. The Caldwells and the Morrills, life-
long friends, had hoped since Dan and Mary Lynn were children that
they might someday make a match. Twenty-four years earlier, Jim Mor-
rill had been best man when Frank Caldwell had married Jim’s wife’s
best friend and college mate, Margaret Ashburn; now, on August 5, he
was to be best man in his son’s marriage to Margaret and Frank’s pretty
daughter. Both sets of parents were pleased that their children, though
long and deeply in love, had sensibly waited until Mary Lynn was through
coliege and able to get a good job. With her salary as a high-school home-
economics teacher added to Dan’s scholarship allowance at Emory Uni-
versity, they would start married life in Atlanta with no serious financial
troubles, even though Dan still had two years to go on his Ph.D. in
history. Finally, Mr. Caldwell was glad that many years before he had
had the foresight to start a fund for his children’s college education, his
daughter’s marriage.

“‘Although,”’ he remarked to his wife with pretended sternness, “if I
find out you and Mary Lynn have been charging things over and above
that $700 ——”

Mrs. Caldwell laughed. ‘““You know better than that. Why, Mary
Lynn can stretch a dollar farther than anyone I know!”

That Mary Lynn was something of a financial wizard at twenty-two
was due in part to childhood training. She and her brothers were given
regular allowances, permitted to sit in on family talks about major ex-
penditures. (Mary Lynn remembers vividly the year she talked her father
into buying a larger car.) Expected to perform such small chores as mak-
ing their own beds, wiping dishes, the Caldwell children took pride in
special projects—painting a room, cleaning out CONTINUED ON PAGE 70

HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY

“‘| WANT A
TRADITIONAL
WE DDING’’

Like most |
young engaged girls, ,
22-year-old !
Mary Lynn Caldwell
looked forward
to a romantic wedding |
she could |
remember all her life!
Here’s how she
planned tt all—
on a budget
of $700. |

By JEAN TODD FREEMAN
PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOSEPH DI PIETRO

Al bridal showers, Mary Lynn ignored superstition that each broken
ribbon means another baby. “That's fine—we want lots of children!”

2 Abas By

NYE NE OY ELIE SI Ie FEE AE TRACT RT a

During their engagement,
Mary Lynn and Dan learned
that their attitudes

toward spending differed.
“Money doesn’t mean much
to Dan, he admits that he
doesn’t know how to handle 1t.
He wants to go ahead

and buy something if we both
like it—I want to look
around and try to gel

the same thing cheaper!”

“Nobody likes lo open presents
the way Mary Lynn does!”
Though Dan and her twin
brothers kidded her,

Mary Lynn continued to squeal
happily over 350-odd

wedding gifts that filled the sun
porch, including (among the
usual china, crystal and silver)
a mahogany dining room
suite, 48 pillowcases,

a 4300-mile trip to Canada.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 68 the garage—and
earned extra cash for their efforts. Mary
Lynn painted her own room when she was
eleven years old, and started making
her own clothes soon thereafter. By the |
seventh grade she was already beginning |
to develop a sense of color and style to 4
complement her rather dramatic brunet *
good looks.

That Christmas Mrs. Caldwell gave |
her two sweaters: ‘“‘One the wrong shade
of red, one the wrong size! She said she’d
never buy me another thing to wear.
But she wasn’t mad—we just have difS
ferent taste in clothes. Mother like 4
sweet-looking dresses; I lean toward the
ornately tailored.” o

Shopping alone, Mary Lynn showed |
a flair for picking up smart dresses and
hats on sale or in bargain basements,
soon began to trust her own judgment. |
In home-economics classes she learned |
about colors and fabrics, discovered
most modern materials are shrinkproof
and colorfast, decided it was silly to
bypass a pretty, well-made skirt just
because it was cheap. “‘People who de-
pend on price tags and labels to tell
them whether a dress is good or not
either lack self-confidence or else they
are uninformed!” she proclaimed rather |
grandly. Rarely was she in any doubt as
to what was becoming to her.

While Mary Lynn was growing up in
Charlotte, Dan Morrill and his older
brother Jim were living with their par-
ents in Winston-Salem, less than 100
miles away. Although the two families
visited frequently, Mary Lynn was four- |
teen before she became really conscious
of Dan. On that occasion, she and her |
mother were spending a Saturday morn-
ing at the Morrills’: “I was simply dying |
for a boyfriend and kept praying Dan
would come downstairs—but he never
did.”

Dan was undoubtedly upstairs work-
ing on his ham radio equipment, or
reading. At fifteen he was not yet re-
signed to the inevitability of girls.

Their first date was frankly a put-up
job. Over dinner one evening, the
Morrills and the Caldwells decided that
the young people should have “a
friendly little visit.” Dan was then a
freshman at Davidson College, Mary
Lynn a senior in high school; both were
“going steady with other people.” As.
might have been predicted, the evening
was a flop: ‘““The worst first date I ever:
had!’ Mary Lynn described it, and
added mercilessly, ““Dan thought I was
humpbacked and I thought he looked
like a refugee.” “|

That was that until the next summer
when, again as a result of parental
negotiation, Dan asked Mary Lynn for
another date. His mother, learning that
Mary Lynn was in town for a week’s
visit, gave her son no choice: “The
Caldwells are our dear friends and it
isn’t right for you to date their only
daughter once and then drop her!”
When Dan called, Mary Lynn hadn’t

laid eyes on a boy in five days and would
| have dated anyone. But this second en-

counter was hardly more successful

than the first: Dan’s car stalled, and he
and Mary Lynn had to walk miles be-
| fore they found a telephone. At her door
| that night he said, sounding desperate,

“Let’s see if we can’t have just one nor-
/ mal date!”’ Mary Lynn, amused, invited
_ him to Charlotte the following weekend.
The third date was the charm. “I had
_ liked him to begin with because he was
| so big,” Mary Lynn says, “‘but he sud-
| denly seemed more mature.” By Christ-
mastime both had severed all other con-
| nections and were virtually engaged.
Dan had transferred to Wake Forest
and now, on a Firestone Scholarship,
| was happily immersed in studies and
| beginning to be deeply interested in his-
tory. Though heteased Mary Lynn about
her home-economics courses at Meredith
College in Raleigh (‘‘Are you taking

Drainboard 303 this term, or Freezer
B-1?”) he patiently helped her with

Household Physics and respected her
determination to get her college degree
before getting married.

“We talked about getting married at
the end of my sophomore year, and then
}at the end of my junior year,” says
Mary Lynn. “But I knew that unless I
had my degree, I couldn’t make enough
' money to support Dan and me, and by
| then Dan knew he wanted to go on to
| graduate school. So many couples who
| get married while they’re still in school

either have to ask their parents for
| help, or else end up dropping out and
taking just any old job.”
While Dan was at Wake Forest, he
could see Mary Lynn frequently on
weekends, since Raleigh was only a few
hours’ drive away. But the final year
of their engagement was hard for them
| both. Dan had been elected to Phi Beta
| Kappa, had won a National Defense
scholarship, and was working for his
master’s degree in history at Emory
University in Atlanta. He saw Mary
Lynn only at Christmas and spring
holidays, and found himself studying
harder than he ever had before—so

hard, in fact, that the Jacqueline Ken-
nedy episode raged about him virtually
unnoticed.

Mary Lynn’s brothers were long since

resigned to being greeted, “Hi there,
_ Doug—or is it Dave?”’ Now it was Mary
Lynn’s turn to experience the curious
feeling of looking like somebody else. In
1956, when Senator John F. Kennedy
was almost nominated as the Demo-
cratic vice-presidential candidate, a few
of Mary Lynn’s close friends had
noticed how much Mary Lynn resem-
bled young Mrs. Kennedy, but the ex-
citement was short-lived. By the 1960
campaign, however, the likeness was too
remarkable to miss. At 5’4’’ Mary Lynn
was 3” shorter than the future First
Lady; her luminous hazel eyes were a
little lighter; She was some years younger.
But when dressed — conTINUED ON PAGE 122

—

After a prenuptial whirl

of parties (four showers,

six luncheons, a bridge party,
a reception) Mary Lynn was
dazed with excitement on her
wedding day. While aunts
and cousins oohed their
admiration, bridesmaids in
frothy mint green and yellow
helped her into the ‘‘dreamy”’
gown of heavy satin, later

adjusted her delicate veil.

Brothers David and Douglas
looked as proud as the groom
when Mary Lynn and her
father came down the aisle.
It was a simple, happy
ceremony ; the bridesmaids
glowed, Dan smiled at his
mother, and the sun came out
for the reception on the
church lawn. Aunt Thelma
commented, ‘‘ We've been

waiting years for this day!”

a a ee ee ee a ee eh ee
By CYNTHIA KELLOGG interior Decoration Editor: ___ SS eee a

How can you make your decorating dreams come true? Before
you buy even an ashtray, plan the entire decorating scneme.
Then you can be sure that what you can afford this month will
look just right with what you can buy a year from now.

Our case history that illustrates this sensible approach to a
major investment is that of Mr. and Mrs. Dan Lincoln Morrill,

Dan's proposed study area shows an old desk-table, new chair, assemble-yourself shelves, electrified oil lamp. The Journal duplicated the Morrills’ present apartment

PHOTOGRAPHS BY ERNEST SILVA

Neng

‘
4

the just-married couple that is the Journal’s ‘‘How America
Spends Its Money’”’ family for this month (see page 68 for
their story).

Like many other young couples, the Morrills are making do
with what they can assemble from families and wedding gifts
until they can realize the apartment of their dreams. But our

= "a Raa Sat yo. Ae

9 give you a preview of their plan for a heartwarming red-and-white scheme furnished with a mixture of new Early American designs and old French tabl

)

Pers a oe

es and rush chairs.

)

:
!
‘inancial counselor, Sidney Margolius, says the Morrills can
ichieve their decorating goal in just two years. He estimates
hat they will have $1750 extra from their annual income of
p6900—morethan enough, in two years, to cover the $2588.61
rudget for the cozy, comfortable scheme shown above in a
model of the Morrills’ old-fashioned Atlanta apartment. It is

How they will do it: plan the
entire scheme first,

then buy without worry

decorated with furnishings that Dan and Mary Lynn selected
with us on a shopping tour of stores in Atlanta and is on view at
Rich’s department store there.

The budget (itemized on page 128) covers everything except
decorative accessories and lamps, which the Morrills plan

to make inexpensively by electrifying CONTINUED ON PAGE 128

enn ee gc I nh ne ee

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LIDA DUTTON Once she started talking,
no one could get a word in—not even enemy soldiers.

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‘
' TRAY " mh tf } yh
Midd b MALAI & JOHN HUTCHINSON Lida first saw him coming in a
cloud of dust: “I think I can see, My gallant husband to be.”

ay aie

ie : Vil I | ath) Wi ot NW
SARAH AND WILL AM MIC E nN “Confederates are not

welcome here,” Sarah wrote, but she fell in love with a Rebel major.

SARAH She urged Lincoln’s re-election in a
STEER town surrounded by Confederates.

THE BEAUTIFUL AND ANXIOUS MAIDENS

They Would Have Been
‘Sought By Every Man In
Town - Had There Been Any

By Edmund G. Love

When Volume One, Number
One of the Waterford News was
delivered at Point of Rocks,
Maryland, on June 8th, 1864, it
contained the following provoca-
tive note under the heading of
“Marriages”: “We are sorry to
report that there have been no
marriages in this village since
1861. We live in the constant hope
that we shall be able to fill this
column ere long for our town has
many beautiful and anxious

IMUND G. LOVE. THIS 1S FROM A BOOK BY THE AUTHOR TO BE PUBLISHED BY HARCOURT, BRACE & WORLD, INC. ILLUSTRATED BY DOUGLAS GORSLINE

maidens. The only thing we do
not have at present is handsome
and eligible bachelors.”

This unusual little newspaper
with its frank matrimonial plea
was delivered to Union soldiers
stationed in and around Point of
Rocks, a small village on the
Potomac River across from
northernmost Virginia. The
Waterford on the masthead was
a small rustic town of forty
families huddled on the side of a
mountain about nine miles to the
southeast, in Virginia. Water-
ford was in a no man’s land, in
more ways than one. Bands of
riders prowled the countryside,
taking what they wanted from
the towns and farms in the way
of food, livestock and equipment.
Most of the riders were from
Mosby’s Rangers, a band of ir-

regular Confederate cavalry,
but now and then the regular
Confederate cavalry ranged
through the countryside. It was
considered unsafe for any
traveler to move about for nine
times out of ten he would return
minus horse, buggy, harness,
valuables, or clothes.
Waterford, itself, was popu-
lated by Quakers — female
Quakers. All the adult males had
fled to the north as early as
1861 to escape military service
for the Confederacy. The wives
and mothers had carried on as
best they could, feeding and
clothing their children and hid-
ing whatever they held valuable
from the greedy raiders. But the
village was run, to all intents
and purposes, by the beautiful
and anxiOUS CONTINUED ON PAGE 136

‘ Be ‘

ESE

aS ee eS

& 2 oe

pamervonaatt’

DI PIETRO

Mrs. W. DE LANEY WAY,

Jr., Orlando, Fla.

Lots of old friends gather when Phyllis
Way entertains. The relaxed comrade-
ship in the patio centers around a grill
where Barbecued Shrimp are _ pre-
pared—when everyone is ready to eat.
Shrimp can wait as they marinate in a
many-flavored barbecue sauce. So can
the rest of the menu! “‘Having lots of
‘waiting’ recipes is one of the reasons

entertaining is so much fun for me.”’

NORMAN KARLSON

guests are hungry, are joined by rice,

Barbecued Shrimp, grilled when

a crisp salad and green beans. For dessert—cream-filled meringue.

BARBECUED SHRIMP

Crush 1-2 cloves garlic and blend with 2 cup cooking oil, 1 teaspoon salt,
1 teaspoon coarsely ground pepper, 3 tablespoons chili sauce, 1 table-

spoon Worcestershire sauce, 3 tablespoons vinegar, % cup chopped

parsley and a dash of bottled hot-pepper sauce. Use a blender if you
have one. Rinse 3 pounds shelled, deveined, uncooked shrimp; drain
and arrange on 8 skewers. Set the skewers over a baking pan. Brush

shrimp with the sauce. Cover with saran and allow to stand overnight,

broil for 10
frequently and brushing with the marinade when
Serve h

or at least Urs,

in the refrigerator. When ready to use,
minutes, tu

you do. freshly cooked rice. Garnish with chicory and

tiny skewers of nge sections, olives and pickles. Makes 8 servings.
Note: If you wish use an outdoor grill, place the shrimp on skéwers
about 5”-6” over gl ng coals. Grill for 10 minutes, turning frequently,
and brush with the marinade as you turn. These shrimp are excellent

served on colorful toothpicks as hors d’oeuvres as well as an entrée.

*
NORMAN KARLSQN

edi

confections—Praline Cake and coconut
cakes. Guests help themselves to mulled cider from a punch boul.

A silver tray holds delicious

DI PIETRO

ee r . Sea ee
% Mrs. THOMAS YOUNT, Oak Ridge, Tenn. |

. An open-house hostess, Fanos Yount |

likes to entertain crowds of friends—
often 50 at a party. Jane first plans the
guest list and then the food. Every-
thing—her famous Praline Cake, coco-
takes and Cider Punch—is pre-
pared ahead and held in the refrigera-
tor or freezer. Jane creates a party at-

nut

uses her old family silver to make cen-
terpieces.
to find the whole house has taken on

flowers that are red, blue and pink.”

PRALINE CAKE ‘

Prepare | package yellow-cake mix according to package directions.
Pour batter into2 greased and floured 13”x9”x 2” pans. Bake in a moder-
ate oven, 350° F., until done, about 30 minutes. Remove from oven.
Melt 42 cup butter in a skillet. Mix | package (1-lb.) light brown sugar,
2 tablespoons flour and 2 beaten eggs. Add to the butter in skillet and
cook for 3 minutes over low heat. Remove from heat and stir in 1| fi
teaspoon vanilla and 12 cups coarsely chopped pecans. Spread evenly —
over surface of the cooled cakes. Return cakes to oven and bake at
100° F. Cut them
into 12” strips for party service. Makes 60 delicious bite-size servings.

for 8 minutes, in order to “‘set’”’ the frosting. Cool.

mosphere with a variety of flowers and ©
“My husband comes home

a new look. For February I always use .

use

Mrs. ROBERT T. MORRIS ILL, Portland, Oreg.

Doris-Helen Morris finds that buffet
suppers are the “thing” to bring
friends together. Usually Doris-Helen
has 20 on her guest list. Her menus fea-
ture dishes that are simple, “‘at least
for me,” like Currant-Glazed Pork,
and peas seasoned with nutmeg. “Our
guests sit in small groups that stretch
from the kitchen to the living room
and the evening ends with dancing.”’

KARLSON

nt-Glazed Roast Pork is ringed with marinated artichokes and

apples. Other items: peas with nutmeg, tomato aspic, and fruit.

CURRANT-GLAZED ROAST PORK

» the butcher crack the backbone from ribs of a 5-6-pound center-
pin of pork so that carving will be easy. Wipe meat with damp cloth.
off excess fat. Season meat with | teaspoon salt and 4 teaspoon
ver. Place in an open roasting pan, fat side up. Roast in a moder-
slow oven, 325° F., allowing 35-40 minutes per pound, or until
t thermometer registers 185° F. About 112 hours before meat is
>, remove from oven and pour all fat from pan. Heat | cup cider
‘you like,sauterne with | jar (10-0z.) red-currant jelly until blended,
pour over meat. Continue roasting until meat is done, basting
uently with the glaze. To serve, remove meat from pan and keep
- Skim excess fat from sauce and stir in | cup consommeé. Bring
fnixture to a boil and pass it with the roast. Makes 8-10 servings.

To show you how young America entertains, we picked young women from four different

| . states, asked them to share with you their most successful menus and recipes. Each is
\ married, has children, is from 25 to 30 years old. All of them “‘just love to entertain”? and do
“i it often. They are good planners, and whether it’s open house for 50 or buffet supper for 12,

s they have as much fun as their guests. As one of them says, ‘““We just enjoy having a party.”

DI PIETRO

Mrs. LORENZO B. TAYLOR, Houston, Texas

A buffet-supper hostess, Marilyn Tay-
lor says that “‘twelve is no problem.”
A hot tray and big copper chafing dish
keep the food warm on her round din-

ing table. She decorates with ivy, yew

re . . » >» &

and fruit. “My husband says I bring a
the yard into the house.’? When the oss
. . . |
weather is nice, guests take their plates eae
outdoors to tray tables arranged in the .7 ; 5
patio and “‘enjoy the best of Texas.” ee *

STRAWBERRY-GLA ZED WHIPPED-CREAM PIE

Pastry: Place | cup biscuit mix and 4% cup softened butter in a 9” pie-
pan. Pour in 3 tablespoons boiling water and stir mixture with a fork
until dough forms a soft ball and leaves the sides of the pan. With the
fingers pat dough evenly over bottom and sides of the pan, bringing it
up over rim and pressing dough into a neat edge. Prick all over with
fork. Bake 10-12 minutes in a very hot oven, 450° F., until golden. Re-
move from oven and cool.
Filling: Wash and drain 6 cups fresh strawberries. Save out a few of the
most perfect. Hull the rest. Mix 4 cup water, | cup sugar and 214 table-
spoons cornstarch in a saucepan. Crush 2 cups of the strawberries and
add. Bring mixture to a boil and cook until clear, 3-5 minutes. Add |
tablespoon butter and enough red food coloring to give glaze a bright
color. Rub through a strainer. Arrange remaining strawberries in pie
shell, mounding them up in the center. Spoon the warm glaze over,
making sure all the berries are covered. Ceol. Before serving, whip |
cup heavy cream, sweeten to taste and arrange fluffs around edge of
pie. Garnish with a ring of the perfect strawberries. Makes 8 servings.
CONTINUED ON PAGE 120

A shimmering Strawberry-Glazed Pie makes the right ending for this

menu: Crabmeat Casserole, fresh-vegetable tray, toasted rye slices.

NORMAN KARLSON

DINNER

fo please
aman

=.»

MENU I
Deviled Short Ribs of Beef with Gravy
Parsley-Buttered Wide Noodles
Green-Bean Salad
Sweet Pickles
Lattice-Crust Red-Cherry Pie
Coffee or Tea

DEVILED SHORT RIBS OF BEEF
6 pounds short ribs, 1 tablespoon minced
cracked into serv onion, fresh or dried
ing-size pieces 34 Cup prepared
2 teaspoons salt n“‘stard
14 teaspoon pepper 2 cups tresh white
3 tablespoons flour bread crumbs
Dash of cayenne

(optional)

2 (1014%-0z.) cans
consommeé

le cup melted
butter

2. tablespoons
cider vinegar
Place short ribs on a rack in roasting pan; season
and roast in a moderate oven, 350° F., until
tender, about 1!4-2 hours. Cool, transfer to an-
other pan or onto aluminum foil, cover and re-
frigerate until the next evening. To make the
sauce, pour off all fat and leave about 3 table-
spoons drippings in the roasting pan. Bring to
boiling point and stir in flour. Cook over low heat,
stirring constantly, until lightly browned. Add
consommé, vinegar and onion and cook until
shghtly thickened. Cool, pour into a bowl. Cover
and store in refrigerator. A half hour before
dinner take ribs from refrigerator and trim off any
fat. Spread each rib well with mustard and roll in
crumbs lightly seasoned with cayenne, if you like.
Place on a baking or broiler pan and spoon a little
melted butter over each piece of meat. Bake until
golden in a hot oven, 400° F., about 30 minutes;
or broil, slowly, turning to brown evenly. While
they are browning, heat the sauce, adding a little
mustard to taste (about 2-3 tablespoons).’ To
serve, arrange ribs on parsley-buttered noodles.
Pass gravy in a sauceboat. Makes 4-6 servings.

GREEN-BEAN SALAD

2 (1-lb.) cans cut green
beans, drained '4 teaspoon celery

1 onion, peeled and salt

1 clove garlic, peeled
and crushed

l4 cup red-wine
vinegar

ly cup olive oil

Salt and pepper to taste

1 teaspoon basil

thinly sliced

lf green pepper,
cored and cut into
Julienne strips

lg teaspoon orégano

lg teaspoon dill

Place all ingredients in a bowl, toss lightly, then
cover and marinate for at least 2 hours in the re-
frigerator. Toss occasionally. Serve very cold.
Makes 4-6 servings

“Happiness for man ... much depends on
dinner,” said Byron. Beef for dinner will
make the man you love happy, thinks the
JOURNAL: deviled short ribs served with
mouth-watering sauce; country steak sim-
mered in onion gravy; a corned brisket of
beef with crisp tender cabbage; spiced
beef with sour-cream gravy. With these,
plenty of vegetables, the kinds of desserts

men go for: red-cherry pie under a lat-

lice crust; fruct-filled- apple

dumplings.

Bring dinner to his desk if he’s “‘too busy to eat.”
Beef short ribs, buttery noodles, a green-bean salad.

LATTICE-CRUST RED-CHERRY PIE

14 cup sugar

2 tablespoons quick-
cooking tapioca

14 teaspoon almond
extract

1 tablespoon butter

Pastry for 9”
two-crust pie

2 (1-lb.) cans sour
pitted red cherries

14 cup firmly packed
brown sugar

BEN SOMOROFF

Drain cherries and reserve 14 cup of the liquid.
Mix cherries, the 14 cup liquid, sugars, tapioca
and almond extract. Let stand 20 minutes, stirring
occasionally. Line pie plate with pastry, allowing
14” overhang. Pour in cherry mixture. Dot with
butter. Roll remaining pastry into a rectangle and
cut into 14” strips and form a lattice top crust.
Turn edge back onto edge of pan and press lightly |
with a floured fork. Bake in a very hot oven,
425° F., 35-40 minutes or until crust is golden and
pie is bubbly.
This has its best flavor when served warm. Makes
6-8 servings.

MENU II
Country Steak with Onion Gravy
Whipped Potatoes
Corn Kernels in Cream
Italian-Style Bread Butter

; Tossed Green Salad
French Dressing
Chocolate Dessert

Coffee or Tea

COUNTRY STEAK WITH ONION GRAVY

4 tablespoons
shortening
lg cup chopped celery
l4 cup flour 34 cup chili sauce
2 teaspoons seasoned 1 can (1014-0z.)
salt consommeé

2-216 pounds top
round steak cut
1”-11%” thick

14 teaspoon pepper 1 teaspoon
4-5 onions, thinly Worcestershire
sliced sauce eg

Mix flour and seasonings and pound into both si

of the meat, using a mallet or edge of a plate.
Brown onions in 2 tablespoons shortening, using a
heavy skillet or Dutch oven. Remove, drain on
paper toweling and set aside. Add remaining
shortening to skillet and brown meat slowly and |
well on both sides. Add remaining ingredients. 9
Bring to a boil, cover tightly, reduce heat and sim- }
mer for 1 hour. Uncover and add browned onions.., }
Cover again and cook until tender, about an hour.
more. ‘
Skim sauce to remove excess fat. If sauce seems J
too thick, thin to desired consistency with a little |
water. Adjust seasoning to suit taste. Makes 4-6
servings.

A small tart filled with chocolate pudding with a
bit of whipped cream or topping. Or it could be
chocolate tapioca; or chocolate ice cream, with hot
fudge sauce. Any of these will top this meal with
grace. CONTINUED ON PAGE 141

SS eee ee ee

.
|
CHOCOLATE DESSERT

|
EW CHILI BEEF SOUP. Here’s a soup
please a man — to keep the whole
ily happy! Tender pink beans and
0d lean beef are carefully simmered
ith tomatoes, onions—and spiced just
ght with chili. Campbell’s Chili Beef
a great soup for hearty eaters. A
ight, friendly treat that’s ready to
rve in just four minutes. Ladle out
snerous helpings of this good soup
hen-the family’s hungry . . . when
‘iends come to*call. Hearty, happy new
ting from Campbell—Chili Beef Soup!

Al ec

VEGETABLE BEAN SOUP. Take
seven sun-ripened vegetables—carrots,
potatoes, celery, onions, tomatoes, cab-
bage, turnips. Add the special goodness
of plump California beans and tiny len-
tils! Then simmer with fine lean beef
in a beefy broth. That’s how Campbell
makes Vegetable Bean Soup! It’s a
hearty soup. A sturdy country-kitchen
soup—just naturally nourishing. Have
it hot and ready to please your family
any time of day. Great new eating
from Campbell—Vegetable Bean Soup!

Ian G we oo
; =
ak a

MOON WALK
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 34

Key put his big, red, hairy hand on my
shoulder, and we started walking down the
deck. “Not today,” he said. “I’m making my
official farewell calls. How’s . . . everybody?”

I knew he meant mostly mother, and I
tried to give a true answer. “All right,” I said,
“I guess.” (That was because I suddenly real-
ized she’d spent a lot of time the last week
just standing around the house staring at
things. She’d straighten up an old painting
of some old ancestor or hold a piece of
grandma’s Venetian glass up to the light, and
just stand there thinking. Besides, she’d been
letting us do almost anything we wanted.)

Key stopped and gave me a sharp look.
“Anything wrong?”

“Oh, no,”’ I said quickly.

I was only eight, but I understood why he
wouldn’t come to see us anymore. The week
before Luke and I had been trapped in the
bathhouse and overheard him ask mother to
marry him, and her explain why she wouldn’t.

““Guess what?” I said, looking up. “‘Uncle
Si sent mother a cylinder of helium and a box
of balloons. U.S. Government surplus. They’re
coming over right on this trip. Willie Boot,
the freight agent, asked me what they’re for.
I don’t know. Do you?”

“T haven’t any idea,” said Key, “but I trust
you are all prepared for the worst.”

We went and found Luke then, and the
three of us sat together the rest of the half-
hour trip. Key told us about his new assign-
ment in Paris, asked us how the Me Too
paint job was holding up, and how Grover
was. Grover’s our six-year-old brother. Key
kept us talking. Otherwise, I guess we would
have just sat and listened to the churning
sound of the ferry engine and stared at the
bay because for a while, somehow, the whole
world seemed bright, blue, sunny and sparkly
except for us.

We told mother about the helium and bal-
loons as soon as we got home and she piled
us all in the station wagon and drove right

down to the freight office on the Trebel side
of the ferry run to pick them up. Neither
Luke nor I told her about seeing Key on the
ferry. We just didn’t know how to bring the
subject up, I guess.

Back home again, we stowed the stuff in
the barn until we would hear from Uncle Si.

That night the dishwasher was humming,
Grover and I were watching TV, and mother
and Luke upstairs moving her desk away from
the east bedroom window because she had
suddenly decided the view of Kent was too
distracting. After all the years her desk had
stood there!

With all this noise it was a shock to hear,
“Attention!” (pronounced ““Ah-ton-see-on!’’).

Nobody but Uncle Si ever yelled at us in
French. And there he was, looking a mile
high as usual, putting down his luggage in the
dining room just as if he had dropped out of
an airplane through the roof.

You’d have thought we hadn’t seen him in
a year instead of just five weeks. Grover
started climbing up him as though he were a
tree. Luke and I yelled together, ““How long
can you stay?” Mother, arriving last, gave
him a hug and said, ““You’re supposed to be
in London! When did you get back? Have
you eaten?”

“One question at a time!”

He threw his topcoat on a chair, hoisted
Grover up and started toward the hall phone.

‘“What’s the helium for?” I asked as we all
waited for Lilly Reilly, the telephone operator,
to answer.

“Got here, did it?’ Uncle Si asked. ““How
about the balloons?”

“What’re they for?”

“Youll find out,’ he teased, giving Grover
another hoist and jiggling the phone. “Think
that operator’s gone on strike?”

“She'll get to you,”’ mother said, giving his
collar a tug. ““Honestly, Si, I never understood
why you don’t meet any good tailors in Wash-
ington, London and Hong Kong the way
other Americans do.”

Uncle Si looked at mother in her neat
walking shorts. ““You sure those aren’t too

tight?” he said. ‘People should float around
in their clothes. Half the trouble in the world
today comes from the tight collars and pants
diplomats wear. Make a note of that, Alex,”
he said to me. Uncle Si had given us a Family
Journal one time; I’m in charge of it because
mother says I’m the one who always has a
pencil behind his ear.

As soon as Uncle Si made his date and hung
up, he said to mother, ““You haven’t changed
your mind, I suppose?”

Mecther looked startled and tried to get us
kids to take his things up to the room where
he kept his fishing rods, rifles and all his
extra clothes.

“T’m sure the boys know all about it, Amy,”
Uncle Si said, sliding Grover down to the
floor.

“‘Sure,’’ said Grover. ““Mother doesn’t want
us to grow up to be Navy brats. We won’t
grow up to be Navy brats, mother, honest!
Will we, Alex? Will we, Luke?”

The next time we told him anything, he’d
know it!

“Navy brats?” mother said unhappily. “I
never used such an expression in my life.”
But she didn’t reprove Grover, and that’s
just how she’d been all week. She said to
Uncle Si, “Children must have a chance to put
down firm roots when they’re young—espe-
cially nowadays.”

Said Uncle Si, “But roots are put down
in family relationships—not in a particular
place.”

“T don’t want the boys to have anything
like what we had.” (Mother and Uncle Si had
practically brought each other up after their
parents were killed in an automobile crash.)
Then a thought struck her. “Key didn’t ask
you to come!” she exclaimed, ready to be
angry.

““No, honestly,” said Uncle Si. “I had some
accumulated leave, that’s all. When’s Key
leaving, by the way?”

“IT don’t know exactly,” said mother, ‘‘but
everyone must understand: my decision is
irrevocable.”

PS Be oe eee A

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

And she stampeded into the kitchen to heat
up leftover clam chowder and codfish cak
for Uncle Si. He cocked his head ruefully
the three of us.

We share Uncle Si with twelve cousins all
over the country, and because he can’t re.
member birthdays he gives us presents when:
ever he thinks of a good one. The onl
present worth giving is an idea, to “‘expand
the horizons” and go on forever, he says,
Uncle Si was a good influence that way, but I
don’t believe he ever intended to expand our
horizons in the direction of the U.S. Navy. He
probably thought we knew enough about it
as it was.

We used to wake up in the morning to the
whoop ... whoop ... whoop of the ships
testing their alarm systems before they slid’
out the narrows on maneuvers. In certafn\
winds the Navy planes from Anvil Air Base’
finished their takeoffs parallel to our beach,’
Sometimes helicopters, and even blimps from
faraway Cape Haddock, would whir over

)

mother’s head when she was hanging out the

wash.

But the truth was, we weren’t especiall
well acquainted with the Navy. Where we.
lived, up at the north end of Trebel, the near-
est Navy installation was the one on Kent)
Island. Even with the radar base down at the
south end, most of Trebel was just summer
resort and most Trebel Islanders had no con:
nection with the service.

Well, three years ago this spring—mostl
thanks to Uncle Si—we got very weil ac
quainted with the U.S. Navy and they with us.,

i
]

It began one day when, at the tail end of a}

long mean March northeaster, we went out,
to inspect the cairn that all of us—even
Grover, who could only toddle at the time—
had built as a memorial to daddy. Uncle Si}
had suggested we put it right where daddy’

learned to swim and row and sail overlooking

the East Bay he loved. Uncle Si says men have
used rocks this way for aeons and it was
fitting. It showed daddy was one with all the
men down the ages who had fought and di

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J JARY. 1962

‘h forward the line of civilization and
lt took six-foot waves without losing a

| a stone had moved in the cairn, as
but at the end of the pier we found two
nissing and a shark-shaped metal thing
ng against a piling.

‘e said, “It’s a torpedo. A lost test
lo.” He finally convinced mother it was
sss but very valuable, and we managed
t up.

t day our phone, which always broke
‘during heavy storms, was back in work-
der, and mother called up the torpedo-
* lab. After a telephone operator, a
ry and a public-relations officer, she
got a lieutenant commander named
5n. None of them seemed to understand
we were.

said to the lieutenant commander, “If
just look west, you'll see a big old
farmhouse standing by itself. There’s
1 red barn up back of it and a pier in
|—— Well, we can see you! Let me try
» And she stopped and thought. “Look,”
f id, “‘we’re on Trebel Island, just oppo-
;e southwest end of Kent.”

urned out they’d been looking east all
ne. The lieutenant commander said they
send for the torpedo at once and thank
2ry much.

it was mother’s first conversation with

had our picture taken by the County
while we got a reward of $100 from the
nander, Submarine Force, Atlantic Fleet,
If. Mother wouldn’t get in the picture,
e’d had to be talked into letting us take

Thales was asked what was difficult,
id, ‘‘To know one’s self.’’ And what
‘asy, ‘‘to advise another.’’

DIOGENES LAERTIUS

joney. She stood over at the side with
snant Commander Weedon, who'd ex-
d that the reward and publicity would
age the search for another lost torpedo.
irned out to be a tall guy with crisp
h-red hair, who stood very straight with
te-topped cap clasped under his arm.
ard he took us on a tour of the lab—
arts that weren’t secret. Grover stuck to
utenant commander like glue and asked
ons all the way back to where the gig
aiting to take us home again.

2n, one day that April when mother was
2 kitchen making a chocolate cake for
A bazaar, she saw Lieutenant Com-
er Weedon, a chief petty officer and two
come walking up from our pier, sud-
stop, point up at our roof and then
across the terrace. At the same time
ont doorbell rang. This hardly ever hap-
1 at'our house. Everybody, except pos-
off-islanders, even at parties, came
gh our kitchen. Grover, wearing an old
life preserver and a beat-up southwester,
tearing down the stairs just in time to
other tug open the crotchety front door.
ling on the old millstone somebody put
here for a doorstep ages ago were two
shore patrollers. The lieutenant com-
ler, the chief petty officer and two sailors
unceremoniously in the back way.

on’t be alarmed, Mrs. Martinchester,”
eutenant commander said quickly. “We
zht something was amiss. There’s been a
er-light SOS from this location every
inutés for the past forty-five. You do
a blinker light, don’t you, Mrs. Martin-
er? Up there on that little balcony?”
over was tugging at her sleeve.

ait just a minute, darling.” Then she
2d at him more closely and said, “Oh.”
was me and Harrigan,” Grover said
under the old southwester.

* said mother automatically, and she sat
on a dining-room chair.

was J and Harrigan. We been playing
g battleship.”

w,” said the tall shore patrolman
ptly, “he couldn’t send an SOS. He’s too
It must have been this Harrigan.”

“Harrigan’s his imaginary friend,’ mother
said softly.

Well, as soon as mother had recovered a
little, she explained to the men how Uncle Si
had given us and Pinky Watts, Luke’s friend
who lived upshore from us, the set of blinker
lights he had bought in a Government-surplus
sale because he thought we might like to learn
Morse code. Uncle Si had given us the code
books too.

“T had no idea they had learned so much,”
she told them as she led them through the
playroom to the balcony, “‘especially this
one,” she added, giving Grover a pat.

‘Pee here, sir,” the chief said to the
lieutenant commander, giving the signal shut-
ter a couple of quick jerks, “it’s a real Num-
ber X-three-two-oh-five, eight-inch battleship
model,” and he went down on his knees to
follow the electric cord back into the play-
room, “rigged up with an adapter for house
current,” he continued from under my old
desk. “Does Washington allow anybody to
buy these?”

After the others went back outside, the
lieutenant commander placed his cap on our
toy chest and took Grover between his knees.
He pushed the old southwester back on
Grover’s head so he could see his face. Then
he told him that he was a very good Navy
man to have owned up so promptly and not
to have been frightened. He explained about
the shepherd boy who cried “wolf*’ all the
time. ““The rescue system would break down
if people rang false alarms or sent SOS’s for
nothing ”

“Aren’t we allowed to learn Morse code
anymore?” Grover asked him.

“Why, sure,’’said the lieutenant commander.
“IT just wouldn’t send SOS. In fact, I don’t
believe I'd flash any message out across the
bay. It might confuse the Navy.”

This seemed to be a joke he and mother
shared silently. “Well, if you ever see an SOS
from here again, you’ll know there really is
something wrong,” she told him.

“He was awfully good with Grover,” mother
said to Aunt Candy, our daddy’s sister, telling
her about it over the kitchen phone after
dinner that night. “I thought he must surely
have children of his own, but he said ‘Nor
wife, either.” . . . Oh, Candy, no. I always
think there must be something wrong with a
man who isn’t married at his age. . . . Well, of
course, it would be a nice change to be paired
off at parties with someone besides Flounder
Benson or Old Doc Demuth, charming as he
is even at seventy-two.”

She had been laughing, but she stopped
then and said seriously, “I appreciate your
thought, Candy, but I have my life mapped
out. Since Grandpa Martinchester gave us
the place, I intend the boys to grow up here
as their father did. . . . Thanks, darling. Come
over when you can!”

What happened next was that somebody
asked the commandant to let them add his
herb garden to the annual Bay Garden Club
tour. The committee thereby got a whole
Sunday-feature spread. Mother and Aunt
Candy, and Lieutenant Commander Weedon,
were in some of the pictures so I pasted the
story in the Family Journal along with the
one about our finding the lost torpedo. Up to
then, these were all the clippings I had.

The next week Key took mother, Aunt
Candy and Uncle Hughlen to the ballet in
Eastport. Then he took mother to the Navy
Relief Ball. The next week the mackerel were
running. and he took Luke, Grover and me
fishing. That’s when he found out we hadn’t
got daddy’s old rowboat, the Me Too, in the
water yet. So every evening he came over
from Kent in a launch after office hours and
we worked almost as long as the light lasted.
Then mother fed us cookout suppers on the
terrace. Soon none of us could remember
being without Key.

One night after we were all in bed, and the
sound of Key’s departing launch had died
away, Luke said, “I just thought I better tell
you kids we might get a new father.”

In about five minutes Grover piped up,
“Who’s it going to be?”

“The commander, dopey,” said Luke.

“That’s what I thought,” said Grover, and
then, half asleep, “Harrigan likes him.”

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It was the next Saturday that everything
collapsed. And Luke and I told Grover we
weren't going to have a new father.

“Tt’s lousy,”’ he said—the worst swear word
he knew. Then in about five minutes, “Maybe
I’ll send another SOS.”

“Who to, dopey?” said Luke.

Much later Grover said timidly ‘‘Well, I
might do something.”

Now even Uncle Si couldn’t change
mother’s mind.

“Please, Si,” said mother. “I burned my
bridges, as far as Key goes, so it’s futile to
discuss it.”

We were all silent for a long minute, then
Grover said, “Well, why don’t we discuss the
stuff in the barn?”

So we did.

Uncle Si told us about a new sport where
guys tied balloons to their belts and went
soaring around the countryside in great
gentle leaps.

“The way you’ll walk when you walk on the
moon,” he said, leaping the salt shaker over
the teapot and sugar bowl.

“You mean we’re going to the moon!”
Grover yelled.

“No, not this week, Grover. But the gen-
eration you boys belong to will, someday.
What we’re going to do is practice walking on
the moon now so you won't get dizzy when
you do get up there.”

“Oh, boy!” we all said.

“Just a minute,” said mother. “You're go-
ing to tie balloons to their belts and let them
go floating over the landscape? What’s to
prevent them from floating away?”

“We'll always be heavier than the lift of
the balloons,” Luke said.

“A.” said Uncle Si as though grading
papers.

“It makes me nervous,”’ said mother.

‘Perfectly safe,’ Uncle Si assured her. “I’m
going to hold them with a long guide rope
while they’re learning to hop. And I’m not
going to attach the balloons to their belts. I'm
going to have a sturdy canvas seat and har-

ness made. And, to make you feel better, we'll
follow that famous balloonist’s idea for land-
ing: I'll give them a knife to cut the lines or
puncture the balloons one at a time to come
down gradually, should it be necessary—but
it never will be.”

Mother shook her head.

“Oh, mother!” we all protested.

“Actually, it’s educational,’’ Uncle Si said,
bringing up the thing that would interest her
most. ‘““We’re going to do a lot of mathe-
matics, figuring out how many cubic feet ot
helium we need, how many balloons. We’ll
learn how gas behaves under various condi-
tions; and study the weather.”

“It mustn’t interfere with school or home-
work,” said mother, coming around.

“You can come balloon hopping too,
mother,’ Grover offered.

“Sure,” said Uncle Si. ““There’s really noth-
ing to it. We'll start by hopping over the stone
walls and work our way up to hopping over—
oh, say—the lilac bush.”

“Oh, boy!” we all said.

Uncle Si got out a notebook and pencil, and
before he went out to keep his date we made
up a list of equipment to get. The next day
after school we all went to Peasley’s hardware
store.

“Horse weights?’’ said Ev Peasley thought-
fully. (In case you don’t know, years ago they
attached these to bridles for parking horses.
We were going to use them to hold down the
balloons once we got them filled with helium.)
“Horse weights,” said Ev again. “Yup. Yup.
Got some.’ We weren’t surprised. Grandpa
Martinchester says Peasley’s haven’t dropped
a line of merchandise in three generations.
“Close to a dozen out back under the hedge.
How many you want?”

“We'll take the dozen,”’ said Uncle Si.

We also bought yards of nylon rope, canvas
webbing, a big slip fastener to attach the guide
rope to our harness, hose clamps, drafting
paper, a logbook, a knife in a case to slip on
our belts, and a small American flag. Luke
said we had to have a flag on the top balloon.
We already had a barometer.

We bought buckles, hooks, metal rings and
staples for the cobbler to make the canvas seat
and harness adjustable to all of us, which
Uncle Si designed after he and Luke spent
hours poring over a book called Meteoro-
logical Balloons.

They announced that it would take thirteen
balloons to cut Luke’s weight in half, eleven
for me and seven for Grover. They figured out
how to arrange them to balance our weight
evenly, and the lengths of rope for each bal-
loon. Luke learned the most. Grover and I
understood some of it, but we had our own
assignments: weather observations; current
five-day forecasts from the weather bureau; a
sign saying “Moon Walk Headquarters” for
over the barn doors. We soon had a barnful
of balloons, tied down with horse weights,
filled about seven-tenths full because, Uncle
Si taught us, as balloons rise—or get hot—
they expand.

(Grover was to have first turn because it
seemed easier to tie on balloons than untie
them. We'd all use the same three balloons
attached in a line to the middle of the harness
across. the back of our shoulders. The flag
would be tied to the top balloon of that group
so it would fly about twenty-five feet above
our heads. Grover would then have two bal-
loons attached to each shoulder to make his
seven, I would have four, and Luke would
have five.

Uncle Si said all the kids were welcome as
long as they didn’t weigh more than thirteen
balloons’ worth and were willing to learn the
mathematics and other stuff. Mother said they
had to have permission from their parents.
Pinky, of course, we counted in from the first.
He weighed the same as Luke. But the day his
mother and father came to look around, as
other parents had, they said he was too young
to be an aeronaut.

The town buzzed for a week, but there were
other things going on: graduations, weddings,
and the hundredth anniversary of Admission
Day. No one was around on the big day
but us.

SO EE TOLLE A A 2 masse 2

LADIES’ HOME JOUR

We had the harness ready with Gro
seven balloons fastened to the corncrib,
the others in clusters along the main ais
the barn for my turn and Luke’s. The
floated there for five days while the we;
turned squally. Grover and I were cons
tapping our barometer to see if the n
would rise. We made so many calls tc
weatherman in Eastport, he became as j
ested in our project as we were. “Chir
astronauts,” he got to saying as he’d han
Then, one afternoon when his barometer
a tentative rise, he called us instead of wa
for us to call him. We tapped our gla
confirm.

Tomorrow!

But as we were coming back down fro
barn we heard a foghorn from far off T
Point, and before we sat down to suppe
fog swept in.

“It won’t last forever,’ mother |
“‘Here,” she went on, pulling a letter out ¢
skirt pocket in an effort to distract us.

“Dear Martinchesters,”’ it said, “I’m
ing day after tomorrow, but I can’t go wit!
telling you how much it meant to me tok
you all. I am especially sorry not te
Grover, but who knows? Perhaps so!
we'll have a reunion. If ever I can do any}
for you, I am sure you will not hesitate t
in touch with me. Many thanks for r
happy hours. Stroke, boys! Sincerely,

I guess mother thought that last would 1
us laugh, remembering when Key had t
us in the Me Too to try and teach us d
like the Navy. “Stroke, not soak!” Ke

finally yelled as we kept splashing him, ar |

had thought it awfully funny up until ne

“Key can tie knots,’ Grover said drea’
pushing his potato around with his fo

Mother refolded the letter and put it
in her pocket, looking down at it for qu
while.

The foghorns and the muffled ferry wh
answered each other up and down the
all night and all the following day. It

CONTINUED ON PAs

| {TINUED FROM PAGE 82

, thick, muggy cloud bank, so wet that
ry leaf and eave dripped. At one o’clock
next morning, two or three storms must
ve been rolling around the bay. We were all
sroughly awake. The telephone bell kept
ling for no reason, and the night light in
| hall would dim and then brighten. A
th of blue-white light went through the
‘ise, the thunder cracked and the night
at went out for good.
*Transformer,’ Uncle Si said cheerfully
'm his room.
“Oh, dear,’ mother said, “‘no electricity for
vhole day! And the telephone’s sure to be
Ve three kids huddled anxiously in the
adow until the next flash of lightning
owed the barn still standing. We drifted
uk to sleep. It seemed only a minute later
't Grover jounced us awake.
‘Hey,” he said, “I think it’s calm.”
We ran to the window. The sun was just
) ing up. The bay, looking like a piece of
|k-and-gray satin ribbon, rippled only when
jull plunged down for his breakfast. We went
ier Uncle Si.
oo" he exclaimed, wide awake in a
ond.
\It’s only five o’clock!’’ mother said plain-
ly from her room.
| he earth sparkled as we opened the back
or. Luke’s footsteps showed dark in the
_king grass, and drops of water scattered
she ran ahead up the path.
Mother was standing sleepily in her pajamas
: robe in the kitchen doorway. “Come back
breakfast when I call you,” she said, and,
yning, “I guess I can fix us something on
kerosene stove.”
‘We'll balloon-hop down for it at the
fond-story window!”’ Grover called back.
Everything was secure in the barn. We slid
doors wide open and maneuvered the
ess outside. We weighted it down with
tse weights while we got Grover buckled in.

» tested all the knots and connections, and
!

--#

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RULES: Just mail your original recipe with name and address to Heinz
Ketchup Contest, Box #57-H, Mt. Vernon 10, N. Y. Recipes must be
postmarked no later than June 1, 1962, and received no later than
June 15, 1962. Each recipe submitted must be accompanied by one
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The 10 prize-winning recipes will be selected by an independent
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desirability as a family dish)—15 points; appropriateness of recipe

Uncle Si attached the guide rope to the back
and took a couple of good turns of it around
his hand. We snapped the safety knife in its
case to Grover’s belt. Then we began untying
the weights. As soon as the last one was off,
Grover rose a foot and then gently came down.

A SONNET
TO DEATH

By MAE YINGLING COTTERMAN

| thought of you as enemy, a foe
Who came to claim that which | held

most dear,

To leave me empty-handed stark
with fear

By grief attended. Waiting, head
bowed low,

| heard your quiet steps, now swift,
now slow,

As surely down my days your tread
drew near;

Then | beheld your face unveiled and
clear,

And stood ashamed that | should
dread you so.

You who, since time began, held in

your hand

The key to worlds unseen by mortal
eye;

How weak my faith that I’d not
understand

That souls live on and only bodies die;

Seeing with mercy’s wings your feet
are shod,

| now believe you messenger of God.

ui ...then make up your own “Red Magic” recipe.
| We'll pay *1000 each for the 10 best received!

your own $1000 prize winner. It’s easy
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Each recipe must be named, and category indicated. Four permissible
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the H. J. Heinz Co., its advertising agencies, the Reuben H. Donnelley é
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“Whee,” he said, giving a slight push and
going up three feet.

Our hearts rose with him, and we laughed.

After a couple of tries and a few pushes
from Uncle Si, he stopped going up and down
in tl same place and learned to shove off and
make headway. Luke and I stood with our
mouths open as he went down the field in
five-foot leaps with Uncle Si holding the rope
and running jerkily about twenty-five feet
behind him with his shirttails flapping. Above,
the huge balloons whipped along at an angle,
came to a milling rest, then whipped along
again as Grover bounced away from us.

Mother stuck her head out the kitchen
window. She was laughing—for the first time
in a couple of weeks. “‘Funniest sight I’ve ever
seen,” we heard her exclaim.

“Look! I’m a kangaroo
yelling.

“You’re supposed to be walking on the
moon!”’ Uncle Si gasped.

“[’m a kangaroo on the moon,” yelled
Grover.

Grover sailed over the forsythia bush at the
foot of the slope and took three or four jumps
back and forth over the big rock that stuck up
in the middle of the pasture. Uncle Si had a
time keeping the guide rope out of the way.
Luke and I could hardly wait for our turns.
We started getting the extra balloon clusters
out of the barn and weighted down.

When Uncle Si and Grover came leaping
back, Uncle Si dropped to the ground, wiping
his forehead with his sleeve.

“J should have some balloons too,” he
said.

Grover bounced gently in front of him for a
minute, then he bent over, grabbed Uncle
Si’s feet and pulled himself down, lying almost
flat with his arms out straight ahead and his
nose about six inches off the ground.

“LIL bet if I had a couple more balloons I
could fly over to Kent and see Key before he
goes,” he said. ““Today’s the day, you know.”

“We'd have to attach an outboard motor to
the seat of your pants,” Uncle Si said.

Grover was

TOMATO TI

“Well, it was one idea,” Grover said.

Nobody paid any attention. I slid into the
rig as Grover got out, and Uncle Si and Luke
tied on four more shoulder balloons. Sud-
denly I was bouncing. Grover handed me the
safety knife. Uncle Si held the guide rope
thoughtfully; then he slipped off the snap
fastener at my back.

“There’s really no need for this,’”’ he said.
“You can’t float away, nor can you even fall
and scrape your nose, as Grover just demon-
strated.”

I was pleased not to have to be on a leash.
I took one big jump away. It was like flying
with the gulls in slow motion. I went over the
stone wall, down around the house, took one
leap over the spring and one over the lilac
bush. The tool shed took me two tries. The
second time I went.right on over. Uncle Si
and Luke and Grover cheered, and mother
came to the window. I waved at her.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” she said.

“Aw,” I said, bouncing up and down five
feet at a time, “can’t Luke have his first turn
before breakfast?”

“Oh, all right,’ she said. “V’ll get dressed.”

Luke was the most spectacular. Wé got all
thirteen balloons tied on, transferred the
safety knife, and he went down the pasture
in about two leaps, jumped up on the roof
of the kitchen ell and rapped on mother’s
bedroom window.

““Which way to the mountains of the moon,
lady in the moon?’’ he shouted.

Then he jumped up to the blinker-light
balcony, onto the main roof, along the ridge-
pole, over the chimneys, down to the roof of
the front stoop and back to the ground again
beside the pear tree.

“I want to do that,” Grover said.

“Tm afraid you're too little,” Uncle Si said.

“Well, then, can I go up with all Luke’s
balloons and float and make observations
with the field glasses?”’ Grover wanted to
know.

“Float?” said Uncle Si.

“You said I would float if I had all Luke’s
balloons,’ Grover reminded him.

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“So I did,’ said Uncle Si. ““Well, maybe we
can tie you to the cowpen fence with the guide
rope and let you go up and take a look
around.”

“Breakfast!” mother called from the
kitchen door.

We tied the rig to the cowpen fence and
added a few horse weights for good measure.

The sun had been up an hour, and the bay
had changed to look like a piece of blue linen.
High up a few white puffs of cloud had
formed, and as we went down the path a
slight current of coolness touched our hot
foreheads, damp from exertion and excite-
ment.

Wa, we're all ready to go to the moon,”
Uncle Si said to mother as he held open the
kitchen door and let us duck under his arm.

Scrambled eggs were steaming on our
plates, and we didn’t waste any time.

“IT just as lief go to the moon and stay
there,” Grover announced.

“Goodness!” mother said with her fork in
mid-air. ““Why?”

We all stared at him astonished.

““Never mind,” said Grover belligerently.

“All right,” said mother. ““We all feel that
way sometimes, I guess.”

She and Uncle Si resumed eating, but Luke
and I, dimly disturbed by the tone of that
““Never mind!” looked at each other. Uncle
Si broke into our thoughts by sending Grover
to get the binocular and weigh it on the
kitchen scales. Two pounds. That would be
all right, we figured.

Half an hour later we were back at the barn,
checking knots and connections once more
before adjusting the harness to Grover. We
payed out the rope and detached the weights
gradually so there wouldn’t be a big jerk that
might break a few connections.

Uncle Si said, as Grover with the binocular
around his neck went slowly upward “‘It’s
breezing up.”

“Gosh,” Luke and I said, dismayed.

“Oh, I don’t think it'll get too windy before
you get another turn,” Uncle Si reassured us.

Grover was up as far as the guide rope
would let him go when Luke suddenly yelled,
“Hey! He forgot to take the safety knife!”

‘**Haul him down!” said Uncle Si. ““Have to
take proper precautions.”

We began pulling away. Then the guide
rope fell on Luke’s head, and Grover went
floating free, bobbing up and down over the
barn.

“Impossible!”’ said Uncle Si. “Wait till I
get my hands on that Captain Boggs!” (He
was the one who helped us splice the ropes.)

We didn’t stop to examine the rope; we
just assumed the knot had given way at the
slip fastener.

“Grover!”’ Uncle Si yelled as we ran around
the barn to where he was hovering about
fifty feet up.

“What?” said Grover.

““Have you got a pin or anything sharp on
you?”

“No, I haven't,” said Grover.

“Try to pull down on one of the ropes and
break a couple of balloons with your finger-
nails.”

“T already tried,” said Grover, and as he
began to drift across the upper pasture he
raised the binocular to his eyes and looked
around the landscape.

““No enemies in sight,” was what we heard
him say.

**Alex,”’ said Uncle Si, ““you follow Grover.
Luke, come on, you tell your mother; I'll
get my rifle.”

But mother had seen it happen. She grabbed
Luke as he came in the door.

“The phone isn’t working,” she said. “Send
an SOS toward Kent; and keep sending
until you get an answer.”

She jumpedin the station wagon with Uncle
Si and his rifle. I couldn’t keep up with Grover
so I had run back for my bike. We threw it
into the back of the car. When we reached
the corner of the lane, Grover was hanging
almost stationary about seventy feet up across
the shore road. Mother leaped out of the car.

“Grover,” she called, “are you sure you
can’t pull down one of the balloons and break
ita

“I’m sure,” he said.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Mother swallowed. “Well, don’t you worry;
Uncle Si will get you down with his rifle.”

“Tm not worrying,’ Grover answered as an
updraft lifted him about twenty-five more feet.
He shot up another ten as the binocular fell
down to a limb of a wild-cherry tree.

“Oh,” cried mother, “‘why did you take
it from around your neck?”

We couldn’t understand what possessed
Grover to let any weight go. But before we
could think any more about it, he blew away
across the road over the old town cemetery.

“Is it safe to try to shoot?” mother asked
Uncle Si.

“It’s risky with him dangling from below;
I don’t believe I'll try it unless I’m sure there’s
no other way.”

“Yes,” said mother. “Take the car and gem J

the fire department—or someone from downy,
at the ferry .

“Right,” said Uncle Si, ‘although I can’t
imagine what they'll be able to do.”

Mother was pulling my bike out of the back.
of the car, and Uncle Si left so fast he drove
right out from under it.

“We won’t leave you alone!” she called to
Grover. I didn’t know she could ride a bike
that well. She stood up pumping and lit out
on the road through the cemetery gates.

I jumped up on the stone wall. It was hope-
less to try to catch up, but I could see mother
careening down the gravel paths, jouncing
Over graves and just missing the monuments
as Grover floated gently over her head in a
catercorner direction across the three-acre
plot. Beyond, there was nothing but thick
woods—and no way to follow him. Just then

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the wind veered and Grover began to move
toward the ferry. Mother stopped short.

“TH have to follow you along the shore
road,”’ she called to him.

I ran back along the wall and snagged the
binocular while mother pedaled back through
the cemetery gates. Luke came up the lane on _
his bike.

“IT got an answer to the SOS,” he said, “‘but
I don’t know what it said.”

“That’s all right,” said mother, “perhaps
someone will come,” and again she stood up,
pumping, to get alongside Grover, who was |
already drifting well south about two hundred
and fifty yards west of the road. I jumped on
Luke’s handlebars, and we wobbled after her.

Grover went up and down but proceeded
in almost a straight line for a mile until we
came to the county road. There he dangled a
minute, spun slowly and shot up about two
hundred feet.

I guess it was at this point that we all be- |
came really frightened. The weather had |
changed so fast we hadn’t even noticed. When
the big clouds shaded the earth, Grover came
down; when the sun came out. he mounted.

We had dropped our bikes in the middle of |
the concrete and were almost run over by a
carload of tourists from West Ferry. From the
other direction came a whole parade of |
vehicles including the fire engine, Flounder |
Benson, the sheriff, in his old blue car, Ev”
Peasley and Willie Boot in the volunteer fire:
truck, Uncle Si in our station wagon with!
Grandpa Martinchester, and Uncle Hughlen,
with Aunt Candy. They all just parked any-’
where and converged on us, looking skyward.

“Don’t you worry, Amy,” Flounder said,
“we'll get him.”

“He'll probably come on down by him-
self,’ said Willie.

“How are you doing, Grover?’ Uncle Si
called through cupped hands.

“OK,” Grover replied calmly, clearly and
remotely.

“Good boy!”

“We've sent to Eastport for a fire net,” Ev
Peasley said to mother, “in case we have to
drop him into it.”

“Don’t worry,’ again said Flounder.
“There’s dozens of ways of getting him.”

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got loads of good shots around here,”
‘illie.

her, Uncle Hughlen, Aunt Candy and
1a looked at each other silently; then
- said, “I don’t want anyone but Si to
gapne him down.”
.,” said, Ev. “If that’s the way you
|, Amy, that’s the way it’s going to be.”
ver had descended a bit and was going
| the golf course.
ybody leaped into cars and went after
'r at least in the general direction. He
ding over plowed fields and pine groves,
2 had to go by the roads. Luke and I
yicking up our bikes when we heard
» to Flounder as he slammed his car
“Name one.”
te what?”
ly to get him.”
a they saw Luke and me.
in’t you worry, kids,” Ev said, “ we'll
in.”
ve,” we said.
‘ng onto the back of the truck and we'll
u,” Ev added.
as now about 8:30 in the morning. We
1 that, besides Ev’s ordering the fire
omebody had requisitioned a Navy
»ter and somebody else had _ notified
yast Guard and the news that a small
as drifting out to sea in a balloon had
beyond Eastport to the AP and UP.
‘switchboard was jammed.

he time we got to the golf course,
t had already passed over the heads of
le of flabbergasted early golfers. Uncle
ped out at the ninth hole, rifle in hand,
aved Uncle Hughlen on, holding up his
o stop the rest of the cars.
> can’t do anything this way,” he said.
e got to make a plan and get some
ia helicopter, perhaps. Wait!” he inter-
_ himself. ‘“Here’s the shore patrol.”
\jeep driver yelled, “They’re sending a
ter !””
1 barely got the words out of his mouth
one whirred overhead and settled down.
Yeedon leaped out.
yody stopped to wonder how it hap-
‘to be him. But later, grandpa said the
‘must have had his eye on us. Key
yn had come into his office about 7:30
jorning to sign a last-minute report be-
atching his plane to New York and
As always, he went to the window to
‘4 at our place, received the SOS al-
immediately, picked up the phone and
‘us. All he got, naturally, was the out-
er report. He’d then asked Lilly to send
der up to our house to find out what was
and let him know. Lilly was busy,
vt find Flounder on her first try, and
's she thought it was just us kids playing.
had run down to the Kent docks and
a destroyer which could flash a re-
> to the SOS. Then he’d rin back to his
trying to contain himself while watch-
ar place through his binocular, and re-
ering mother saying that if he ever saw
S again he’d know something was really
;. In about ten minutes he spied the bal-
Key didn’t know who was attached,
2 knew what the SOS was about.
juisitioning a helicopter takes time, but
e the first thing he thought of and that
ut he did.
in you get him?’’ Uncle Si demanded.
/ shook his head. He was watching
>r, a tiny figure under the balloons, high
d almost out of sight far over on the
side of the island.
tors are too dangerous. It was the first
I thought of too—the helicopter, I mean.
ys,” he said to us, rumpling our heads.
re’s your mother?”
Uncle Hughlen’s car,’ Luke said.
ow’s Grover?”
e isn’t scared,” I said.
dod! ... What we’ve done,” Key said
icle Si, “is send for a blimp from Cape
ock. They hover better. The only trouble
ey re at sea on antisubmarine duty, but
vill get here as fast.as it can.”
1y,” shouted the helicopter pilot over
ie of the rotors, “‘maybe we could create
sh draft up there to keep him from going
ver the water.”

“TIL go with you,” said Uncle Si. ““Maybe I
can get a shot from above and drop him into
a hayfield.”

“Right,” said Key, “and I'll get things or-
ganized down here.”

The helicopter, carrying Uncle Si with his
rifle across his knees, barely missed a light
plane that was wobbling in. A redheaded re-
porter from upstate jumped out full of ques-
tions. Then we saw there were many small
planes in the sky.

Key said to the shore patrol, “Tell the
Coast Guard to keep the sky clear.”

By 10:15 he had a command post in opera-
tion outside the telephone exchange and

Lilly’s switchboard hooked in to the weather
bureau in hopes there would be some way of
predicting Grover’s course. They kept repeat-
ing, “Variable winds, variable cloudiness, no
change expected until sundown,” except that
once somebody added “Chin up, astronauts!”
and Lilly passed the message on to Luke and
me. By that time she had been so impressed
by Key that she didn’t overlook a hiccup

Although mother didn’t know how it came
about, she was transferred from Uncle Hugh-
len’s car to the radar-station jeep, which was
equipped with a walkie-talkie and, of course,
could travel over much rougher terrain and
keep her closer to Grover.

Mother didn’t get the whole picture for a
long time. Flounder just said the Navy was
doing everything. Nobody happened to men-
tion Key’s name. Purposely, nobody told her
about the Navy crash boats, Coast Guard
cutters, lobster boats, dredgers, yachts, scows,
sloops and even skiffs that were being deployed
up and down the bay ready to fish Grover out.
The one thing that really bothered mother
was his getting out over the water.

From all over the Eastern Seaboard came
ideas for bringing Grover down. One said to
throw him rocks to put in his pockets. An-
other said shoot up a breeches buoy. A heli-
copter started out from New York with a

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lasso expert from a rodeo playing there. Key
had told Lilly to accept every idea that came
along. “We may need them,’ he said, for
Uncle Si had just sent word the helicopter was
too bumpy to chance a shot unless Key felt it
was the only way out. So he came back to the
command post.

Reporters and photographers, chased out
of the sky by the Coast Guard, were all over
the place trying to hire bicycles, open-top cars
and binoculars.

While the blimp battled head winds a hun-

| dred miles at sea, its captain worked out a

rescue plan with Key and Uncle Si via radio.

The redheaded reporter from upstate came
along at one point and said to them, “Say, I
just came back from the barn. I thought you
said the knot or the rope broke. There’s no
sign anything broke.”

“Are you sure?”’ asked Uncle Si.

“Sure.”

After the reporter had gone, Key said,
“What do you think?”

**He could have slipped the fastener off him-
self if the rope went slack for a second,” said
Uncle Si—“‘if he was watching for the chance.”

They looked at each other. The question
was why? They seemed to know the answer.

At eleven o’clock Grover traveled the two
miles directly above Main Street. Miss
Partridge, his schoolteacher, who lives at the
junction of Main and Ocean, happened to be
shaking out her mop just as he swooped down
to about forty feet. She dropped the mop and
nearly fell out the second-story window.

“Grover!” she yelped, clinging to the sill.

Grover responded politely. ““Good morn-
ing, Miss Partridge.’ In about a second he
shot up again.

“What on earth are you doing?” she called
after his departing feet. “Come down from
there at once!”

By this time we had stopped being so fright-
ened. Grover had been in the air more than
three hours, and was still safe. He continued
to be calmer than anyone, except mother. He
didn’t talk very much, mainly because he
didn’t stay down low enough long enough.
Also, it was hard to be heard above the whir
of the helicopter. His attitude was lofty and
detached—only natural under the circum-
stances.

Besides, who could be frightened with Uncle
Si and Key getting things so well organized?
They had Flounder impose some regulations
on the crowd. Mother’s jeep, the fire truck
(with its first-aid equipment and the fire net
which had been delivered on the 10:30 boat)
were given a clear road. Everyone else had to
keep a hundred yards behind them—even
Uncle Hughlen and Luke and I.

The wind veered again. Grover started
floating over rooftops toward the mounds,
a group of little hills that divide the northern
and southern parts of the island. The town
water tower is on one of the mounds, and it
became apparent shortly that Grover might
be going to hit it.

“Thank God!” I heard Willie Boot say.

\ Lees was standing in her jeep, clinging
to the windshield.

“Hold on, Grover,”
grandpa were yelling.

“Grab hold, kid,” the reporters shouted.

Everyone saw him touch the top of the
tank, rise and drift off again.

“What happened?”? mother said. ‘‘Wasn’t
there anything for him to take hold: of?”

Some high-school boys who had been scram-
bling up the ladder to meet him were im-
mobilized. “‘He shoved off. He just took his
foot and shoved.”

Mother sat down.

“He said, ‘Where’s Skeet?’— or something
like that,’ one of the boys reported to her.

Just then the walkie-talkie squawked, and
the sailor listened.

“Commander Weedon says to tell you the
blimp is slated to pick him and your brother
up at the golf course in half an hour.”

Mother looked at him as if he had lost his
mind. Then she grabbed the walkie-talkie.

“Key!” She kind of choked and whis-
pered, “I didn’t know you were here,” and
thrust the instrument back.

“Grover!”’ she called out. “Oh!” For he was
already sailing over the next mound. “Catch

Uncle Hughlen and

up, somebody,” she said, “‘and tell him Key’s
here!”

Everybody was willing. The jeep driver
nearly jerked her head off turning around. But
the message was actually relayed to him over a
loud-speaker from the radar base as he floated
by. At that point, we were told later, he tried
to pull down the balloons and break them
(whether for the first time or not, nobody
knows), but it was a fact: he couldn’t.

Just beyond the radar station at Trebel
Point the Atlantic Ocean licks the base of the
lighthouse. As we arrived there the wind
seemed to grow brisker. For the first time we
saw the flotilla stretching for three or four
miles inside and outside the mouth of the bay.
Mother clasped her hands in front of her
mouth, and all of us felt the cold grip of fear
again.

Groyer blew across the point about five
hundred feet in the air. The helicopter swooped
around him, but nothing could alter his course.
The walkie-talkie squawked again. “‘Aye, sir,”
said the sailor and, to mother, “Commander
Weedon says to tell you they’re in the blimp
and on their way here. Another thirty minutes
and they’ll have him, he says.”

Grover bobbed along toward the light-
house. Everybody abandoned cars and bikes
to run after him.

He has achieved success who has lived well,
laughed often and loved much; who has
the respect of intelligent men, and the
love of little children; who has filled his
niche and accomplished his task; who has
left the world better than he found it,
whether by an improved poppy, a perfect
poem or a rescued soul; who has never
lacked appreciation of earth’s beauty, or
failed to express it; who has always looked
for the best in others, and given the best he
had; whose life was an inspiration; whose
memory a benediction.

THOMAS STANLEY
THE SUNSHINE STATE

“Don’t worry, mother,” was what we
thought he shouted as he whipped out over
the seething water, “I can swim!”

Something else was lost in the sound of the
breakers and the stutter of the helicopter mo-
tor, but we saw him point up the bay. Every-
body turned, and there in a sunny break in
the clouds we saw the shining silver blimp
coming our way.

All our family stood close together on the
rocks at the farthest point out in the water.
We tried to gauge how soon the blimp could
reach Grover as the distance grew between
him and us. The whole town was lined up fig-
uring the same thing.

We actually saw most of what happened,
passing the binocular around among us; the
rest we put together afterward.

It was high noon when the blimp whirred
over our heads. Far above Grover it slackened
speed. The small boats moved out to leave a
quarter-mile circle underneath. The helicopter
veered away.

On shore everyone stopped talking. A big
door in the back of the blimp opened. A shal-
low, round, saucer-shaped device began to
descend on long cables. A man, legs apart,
stood in it, holding to two of the three cables.

“It’s Key,” mother barely breathed.

He dropped down past the top balloon, and
we saw him stoop, pick upa long stick from the
saucer and reach out with it toward the rope
between the first and second balloons.

“Boat hook,” said Flounder. “Quite a trick
if he can snag a rope.”

He tried and missed, rocking and slipping
with the effort.

There was a long pause. Then the blimp
maneuvered away slightly and came back
and dropped the saucer down to the level of
the balloons attached to Grover’s left shoul-
der. That brought Key closer. Again he

reached out with the hook, and again. On the
third try he hooked one rope.

The saucer swayed and seemed about to
spill Key into the sea eight hundred feet be-
low. He pulled, and we all prayed that the
ropes, knots and harness would hold.

LADIES' HOME JOURN

Grover didn’t seem to move. The boat h
slid up the rope until it hit the balloon’
broke it. Grover sprang up and away in|
sunlight. Every cloud had disappeared.

Aes the blimp maneuvered upward
around to bring the saucer near the ballo
on Grover’s shoulder. Once more Key t}
and tried again until he finally hooked a r
This time he first twisted the boat hook in
rope before it could touch the balloon. He
the rope close enough to grab it, but |
meant he had to balance in the saucer f¢
few seconds, leaning against one cable wit
shoulder while he worked with both a
around it.

“IT can’t look!” said Miss Partridge,
had left her housecleaning to follow

Mother had a grip on my shoulder thgf
a bruise for a week, but I didn’t notice af}
time. |

When Key had the rope in his right
he carefully squatted and lowered the
hook into the bottom of the saucer, rose
began to pull again. Grover moved clo
Key then got hold of the main rope for |
cluster of balloons. In another minute Gre
was touching the edge of the saucer. Key’
his shoulder down the cable, grabbed the
ness and pulled Grover over the edge.

A deep breath taken at once by a coupl
hundred people makes a noise almost |
enough to drown out the surf. But it wasn’
over.

Grover clung to one of Key’s legs with
arms. Above them the balloons pul
danced and fluttered, and got tangled in
cables. As the blimp began to haul the say
back up, we saw that they would prever
from ascending to ‘ opening.

Then the shots began, two by two. Unelk
his rifle against his cheek, stood in the of
ing, held by the belt by two sailors, bé
photographed by a Navy photographer,
shot the entangled balloons out of the |
until the last one was gone and the reg
saucer could be hauled aboard. Shoo
down and across Key and Grover was ris|
than ever, and the pictures of Uncle Sis}
are impressive. You can tell he would ne
make a mistake. It was one o’clock wher
dropped his rifle to his side and stepped
to let the saucer come in at his feet. 7

Mother gets hysterical only on really seri
occasions: when the cake falls or the cov
commissioners recommend an_ inadeqt
school budget. At least, that’s what Urtell
says. In real personal crises, she is almos|
cool as aclam. So she was pretty self-contai
all the time Grover drifted in the atmospl
and even while her jeep, followed by the wl
town, was dashing to meet the blimp a
landed again on the golf course. But whe
did come down and Uncle Si handed Gre
out into her arms, she began to cry. 7
scared Luke and me more than anything}
had happened all day, and we tried to}
away the movie cameramen and news f
tographers who were taking her picture.

Then Key came down the blimp st
Mother, holding Grover against her, me
toward him, and both of them were wrap
in Key’s arms, without a word, for a
while until Key said, “Don’t you think {
need a permanent father more than a per
nent home?’ And I saw mother’s head |
against his shoulder.

Luke and I, although near enough to
that softly spoken question, felt kind o
out, but then Key looked up and becko
us behind mother’s back. ®

‘Come on,” he said, “‘let’s get out of he

He took Grover out of mother’s ar
Flounder and the shore patrol had a hard t
clearing a path toward Uncle Hughlen’s ca

“Why'd you do it, kid?” the redheaded
porter called out of the throng at Grover.

Hungry, exhausted and only six years -
he never gave himself away—that is, if he
anything to give away.

“It was the first time Harrigan and I «
been anywhere alone,” he said.

“Who’s Harrigan?” about fifteen news!
called after us desperately, but we were
ready in Uncle Hughlen’s car and startin;
bounce down the fairway toward the st
road and home. I

|
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rrr tee eee OE ee

BRINGS ALONG ITS

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MADE WiTH THE FINEST

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*Pasteurized process cheese spread

You get everythi

You used to have to start from scratch
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cook the macaroni (elbow macaroni
from selected wheat), then add the
tangy cheese sauce that comes in the
package. How smooth it is! How richly
golden! Kraft makes it for you with good
things like sweet country cream and the
finest of natural cheddars. Company-
best is everyday-easy with new Kraft
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=> aa a 1s Sinai eel
he as ee ap in erate SEE Leena bea Trt sp poe AM a Sehat L OR AR Te REE SSR Pa Ron a ere ORR ERR ETI be ae Site n

ac
30

THE BARGA
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 52

She could rope, and she could shoot, and
she knew when to ride behind her pa and
keep her mouth shut.

Every time a drive came through looking
for water, she and Adam rode out to meet it.
A lot of men saw her and hungered for her,
but she never saw a one until Cole Wilson
drove his cattle in; then it was just as if there
was no one in all the world but them.

Adam should have known right off, but he
didn’t. He went out to meet this stranger, and
for him it was no different from any other
time. He sized it up to be a good herd, and saw
that Cole looked like a good-enough man.
That was all he saw.

Dicie saw a whole lot more. Cole did too.
That’s how it happened that he asked Adam
if he could water his herd and let it rest a day
or so. This wasn’t uncommon, and Adam
never suspected, nor missed Dicie the next day.

Their falling in love went like a prairie fire.
By the time Adam smelled smoke, it was roar-
ing out of control. Because she was his one
great weakness, it seemed to Adam that noth-
ing but trouble could come to Dicie through
Cole Wilson. She was the flower of his life, and
although he was proud to have her admired,
he could not bear to have her touched. As
soon as he knew what was going on, he rode
for the camp and tore it up looking for Cole.
It didn’t take much looking. He saw the sorrel
first, tied in among the trees, and Cole and
Dicie were there, clinging together in the shade
of the rocks above the water.

Adam rode in on them. He cut the sorrel
loose and it went thundering through the
grove and up the draw. Then he pulled his
rope and slung it around Cole, pinning his
arms tight to his sides. Adam held it taut and
jerked Cole along to the place where his horse
was tied, and all the time Dicie ran along be-
side and begged him to let loose.

“You get on that horse, mister, and don’t
ever come back this way,’ Adam bellowed.
“Every animal you got can die of thirst and
you right along with it. You stay clear of us.”

Pa,’ Dicie screamed, “‘let go of that rope.
If you drive him off ’'m going with him.”

“You get yourself right up here by me,”
Adam said, ‘“‘and keep quiet.”

Cole struggled against the rope and Adam
pulled it closer. He gave it a nasty jerk. “If I
ever lay eyes on you again I'll drag your car-
cass so far youll ——”

He didn’t get any further. Dicie threw her-
self against the rope and wound herself up
against Cole.

“Drag me, too,” she cried. Tears were
streaming down her face, but her eyes were
flashing and her voice was mad. “Drag us
both, pa. Wherever Cole goes I’m going too.”

Adam let up on the rope and Dicie and Cole
got free of it. Cole swung up on his horse.
Dicie made to get up with him, but he said
something to her, and then he swerved around
and rode on down to his herd. They were moy-
ing out by sundown.

Adam took Dicie home and all the way she
pleaded with him. Nothing she said made any
sense to him. To Adam she was like somebody
with a fever. He lost his reason when it came
to Dicie. She was everything pure and beauti-
ful in his life, like a gift from heaven that he
was bound to hold tight. Adam was blind to
what was right—he had shared God’s other
gifts, but he could not share Dicie. A nan
would have to be next thing to a saint before
he would seem fit as a suitor for his girl.

| hat’s how Adam felt, and when they got
to the house he told her ma to lock her in her
room, then he rode out to the rim of the hill
and watched the herd.

By night there wasn’t a sign of Cole, or his
men, or his cattle, and Adam went up and let
Dicie come out. She was still dressed for rid-
ing, but her face was calm, and she ate supper
and talked the same as always. After the meal
they went out on the unda and then she
asked them just once more. Her voice was low
and soft and full of pleading

“Pa,” she said, “‘will you let Cole stop in
ill you just

vhat he’s

when he comes back this way?
give him a chance to show you
like?”

““He’s a saddle bum,’ Adam said. ““He’s
nothing. He went behind my back like a snake,
and he’d hurt you, Dicie. If he sets foot on this
land I'll shoot him.”

“Now, Adam,” Dicie’s mother said softly,
but Adam’s heart was closed and he didn’t
want to hear.

Dicie just sighed and kissed them both, the
way she always did, and then she went slowly
upstairs and shut the door to her room.

That was the last time they ever saw her.
She slipped out in the night and Cole was
waiting. She left a note for her mother, and a
message for her pa. She told him that if he
ever wanted to see her again he’d have to come
and beg her to forgive him. It enraged him.

Adam tore the note in two and got his
horse, and he rode hard all day and all the
next day, but Cole and Dicie had gone on
ahead of the herd, and the closest he got to
them was in Harte City. He was twenty-four
hours too late; they’d been married there and
no one knew which way they’d gone.

After that things soured for Adam Dwain.
He was like a man without a heart. He let his
ranch slide. He watched Dicie’s mother pining
and that didn’t seem to touch him. When the
big drives came through he seldom rode out
to meet them, and he had the water posted
with signs that said it was his water and
anybody wanting any had to come and ask
him.

He didn’t break his bargain with the Lord,
but the spirit was gone out of it. Adam never
turned anybody away from that water, but he
never wished them well. He just didn’t care.
Fences broke and he rode out to take a look,
but if the men didn’t mend them it didn’t
matter to Adam. He was the same as dead. He
was wounded so deep he thought he couldn’t
be hurt further, but the worst was still ahead.
That came two years after Dicie ran off. They
got a letter one day. It wasn’t much of a letter,
just one piece of paper, and it told them that
Dicie had had a baby boy and died. It told
them where she was buried, and how the boy
was. It plunged Adam right down into hell.

Right away Dicie’s ma wanted that baby.
She begged Adam to write to Cole. She
thought about the baby, reckoning on how
big he was. Time slipped on and she thought
about what he was doing. Then she would say

softly to Adam, “I reckon Dicie’s boy must
be standing up now.”

Adam never heard her. He had no yearning
at all for that young one. All he wanted was
Dicie. She was his heartbeat, his life’s blood,
his breath, his flesh. He prayed to forget, but
he was out of touch with the Lord, and he
drove himself, and exhausted himself trying to
forget. It was no use. Seven years went by, and
the pain was just what it always had been.

In all that time Cole never drove a herd that
way again. Dicie’s ma used to pray that he
would. Every time she saw dust rising in a
yellow cloud she would go out on the veranda,
and shade her eyes, and watch for the rider to
come and ask for water. Someday, she told
herself, it would be Cole. She couldn’t give up
thinking about the boy. She knew when he
was toddling, and saying his first words. She
wondered what woman was mothering him.
She lay in bed, and long after Adam was deep
asleep she would be awake, softly crying for
him. But seven years is a long time to wait, and
she had given up on Cole.

Then a year came that was like the one
when Adam first entered the valley. The dry-
ness started early. The sky was hard and
bright one day on another. And the air was
like powder, sucking the moisture from every-
thing. For miles around the grazing was
burned brown. In town, folks with gardens
lost their crops. Some places wells were going
dry. People watched the sky for rain, and
there was nothing but sun, streaming hot and
bright and burning the breath out of every
living thing.

The drought spread over the country for
miles, creeping like a dry, brown plague, so
that not a trace of anything green was left.
Water holes sank into scummy pools, turned
mucky, and finally lay like cracked dishes,
empty to the sun.

Adam’s water flowed. People came from
miles around and watered their stock. It was
almost as if Adam were God, the way they
came, begging him for water, falling down be-
side it and splashing it over their heads, and
almost crying when they thanked him for it.

He was still indifferent. The water was
there, it was theirs. It was as if he didn’t see
them, or know there was a drought. And then,
one night, when the sun was rimming the

LL a a

SONNETS FROM THE PTA

By NANCY C. PERRY

| When | consider all the school plays |
Have looked on, these things | remember yet:
How brocade curtains left from days gone by
Can costume Rosalind or Juliet,
And velvet portieres make noble lord
And king; how when Achilles speaks his piece
His shining helmet, silver shield and sword
Transport the captive audience to Greece
(Courtesy Alcoa); how opera cloak
Embossed with gilded paper fleurs-de-lis
Doth make a most effective Bolingbroke.
All these things | recall; but vividly
There stands one memory above the others,
The program footnote: Costumes by the Mothers.

ll | wait the moment as | would my doom.
The Light Brigade has charged, and Kipling’s ‘‘If’’
Been answered. While | feel my face grow stiff
With fright, my son stands up to face the room.
My heart is pounding and my vision blurred;
| clutch the folding chair with fingers crossed
And breathe, ‘‘The Runaway, by Robert Frost.”’
With mumbling lips | follow word for word
In idiot’s pantomime the lovely lines
And bob my foolish head to every beat.
My son, unheedful of the torture, shines
A smile at me as he resumes his Seat.
| peel my aching fingers from the chair
And ask myself, whence came his savoir-faire?

Beet AF valraaed

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAF

horizon with taming gold, and the coolne
was creeping up to the veranda where he a
Dicie’s mother were sitting—then, at last, C
came.

At first he was just another rider, a spec
against the glow of the sunset, a cloud risin
horse galloping, and then he was in the yar¢
standing at a distance, hat between his bj
hands, feet set apart. iJ

Dicie’s ma knew it was Cole by the wa
Adam jerked up in his chair, She saw Adam
hand go for his gun, and she cried out. It we
the first time in all her life she’d gone aga
him, but she threw herself at his side an
screamed out, “The boy, Adam. What abou
the boy?”

A aam’s hand slid away from his gun, H
stood up and faced Cole, and the hate hee
was like a snake coiling around his feet, hy
ing. His voice was thick with it.

“What do you want?” he said.

““My herd’s dying,’ Cole said. “I wai
water.”

“You go near that water and Ill turn all m
boys on you.” d

*“Adam,” she gasped, ‘‘the boy, Adam.”

““‘Where’s the boy?” Adam said.

Cole jerked his head over his shoul
““He’s back in camp. I didn’t aim to use himt
soften you up.”

“Oh, Adam,”
the boy in.”

Adam looked as though he were strugglin
with his hate. It seemed to burn up throug
him so that you could almost feel it with ever
breath he took. Finally he said, “’ll make yo}
a bargain. You bring that boy in here and the!
you can water your herd.”

“‘What about the boy?” Cole said.

“You get the water. We get the boy,” Adar
said. ““That’s the bargain. Take it or leave it.

“No, Adam,” she cried. “Not unless h
wants it. Just let me see the boy. Just let m
see him this once.”

Cole regarded them thoughtfully. Even i
the half-light of dusk they could feel his scorn
it was there in his face, and it was almost as |
Dicie were right there sharing it.

“T heard you made another bargain abo
that water,’ Cole said slowly.

‘‘How about the boy?” Adam growled.

“No,” Cole said.

He turned on his heel and swur~ up on hi
horse. He flipped the reins and was ‘urnin
back when Adam began to curse him. “Yo!
won’t find any water for a hundred mile
You'll lose every steer you’ ‘ve got. What g00
will you be to your boy then?”

Cole slapped his horse and in a minute.
was gone, and there was nothing ‘eft but th
sound of hoofbeats, thumping in the distane
and then the soft sound of Dicie’s ma crying

Adam tried to say something to soothe hei
but it wasn’t any use. She wanted the boy s
much it was breaking her heart. She wante
him so much that just to see him would t
enough. Just to know he was alive, and thi
he stood tall and straight, and maybe looke
like his mamma.

Adam stood it as long as he could, and the j
he crashed into the house. A long time ago hi
had told Cole he hoped his herd would die 6
thirst and him along with it. He still felt tha
way. His mood was black as ashes, and he
spending the night with the devil. He was tas!
ing revenge and it had a good taste, and not
ing would spoil it for him—not the picture ¢
Cole’s cattle dropping on the hard, di
ground, and Cole standing by helpless, not thy
sound of his wife’s crying, not the memory
Dicie, nothing.

she begged, “tell him to brir

Adam slept sound that night. He didn
sleep like a sinner, even though he had broke
his bargain with the Lord. If God was angr
with him Adam was the last to know it. He lay
there deep in sleep while heaven began t
churn. The sound was ominous. It grew in thi
distance, grew to terrifying proportions. Thun
der rumbled, a low, terrible, gurgling soun
that grew louder and louder. Lightni
flashed across the black sky, lighting up th
ground so that the ranch house looked like
small wooden block on the great, flat table ¢
the land. The wind stirred along the river, a

CONTINUED ON PAGE 9

EASY CHIC

1 ready-to-cook 3 to 3-1b.
frying chicken, cut up

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 medium clove of garlic

1 teaspoon oregano, crumbled
Salt and pepper

1 to 1% cups sliced mushrooms

1 No. 505 can-(1-1b. size)
DEL MONTE (Stewed Tomatoes

Biker sro

Brown chicken in olive oil with
clove of garlic. Before turning
chicken, sprinkle with oregano,
salt and pepper. Remove garlic.
Add mushrooms; brown lightly. Add
DEL MONTE Stewed Tomatoes; cover.
Simmer 30 min. Uncover; continue
cooking until sauce is reduced to
desired consistency and chicken is
very tender. Good with spaghetti
or rice. Serves 4 to 5.

Rots

BRAND E

\ QUALITY

Das aie

doilaiaiti

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 96

it began to swell until it was a great rushing
noise that swirled in the cottonwoods, setting
their tops to thrashing and singing.

Along about midnight thunder began to
crack. The wind hurled itself against the
house. Lightning streaked the skies and then it
began to rain. The rain came in torrents. The
sky was a great blanket filled with water, and
when the lightning slashed across the heavens
it rent the blanket and water poured down on
the parched land.

It rained and it rained. All night it rained,
ind Adam’s lake filled until the dam spilled

over, water gushed down the rocks and into
the riverbed, and a swirling current rushed
along and into the old watering hole away
down in the meadow where Cole’s herd was
waiting.

By morning the river was running high and
full. The world was purified. Things were
coming to life again. New growth seemed to
be rising through the brown crust of the land.
It was like a miracle.

Dicie’s ma sat out on the veranda in the
cool, washed air, and she thought she could
hear the herd moving along. There was no
cloud of dust, but she could see a kind of

MISS FLUFFY RICE SAYS-

1 tsp.

So easy to fix! Anybody—but anybody—can cook
exactly right. Just follow directions on
, the rice you get now
arefully prepared you don’t even have to wash it!
So easy to serve in delicious ways! Rice can be enjoyed

today’s good rice
the package. Grown in the U.S.A.
iS SO ¢

Easy, Acbiciour

VNsatihe, wDitioud

Such a help for busy days—the good and
easy dishes you.can fix with rice. Here is
the ‘‘how’’ of one family-pleaser. More
suggestions below.

To serve five: Combine 2 cups water,
salt, 2 chicken bouillon cubes,
1 tsp. curry and 1 cup rice. Cook to boil-

rice.

sinter acest pn “

i aa ssienaenmunancencauniassi ae

YOu MOst,

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smudge on the horizon, and she knew Cole
was driving his cattle on up the draw. The
miracle hadn’t touched her at all. It was just as
if she had died there on the veranda the night
before.

Adam saw what had happened as soon as
he woke up. He smelled the good, clean smell
of rain, and suddenly he shuddered. He knew
that Cole’s cattle were not going to die of
thirst, and it was plain to him that the Lord
had taken the matter into His own hands. He
thought about how the valley had opened up
to him and saved him long ago, and he
thought about Dicie, and suddenly it was as
if a great mound of rocks broke away, leaving

ing, stirring. Cover and cook over very
low heat about 14 minutes, until rice is
tender. Meanwhile, heat frozen shrimp
soup (undiluted) and pour over the hot
If you want to fancy it up—and
make an even heartier dish —add addi-
tional cooked shrimp.

in countless ways—and lots of them are easy. Try a
scoop of cooked rice (hot, of course!) in a bowl of soup
—or layer it with prepared chocolate pudding for a nifty
dessert. Versatile, thrifty, packed with energy—

you'll find that rice is your most usefu/ food!

RIC nl

| ADIFS’ HOME JOURN:

his heart free to beat again. He saw then th
he had denied both the Lord and the once
loved when he turned Cole away.
Adam went down to the veranda and he ‘|
the smudge on the horizon, and he looked’
his wife and he saw what a terrible thing}
had done to her. He sank down on the chi
beside her and took her hands in his and |
the hurt and anger he’d been storing up f
nearly ten years drained out of him and.
said gently, “Ma, I'll ride after them. I'll, |
the boy, just for a while. I'll beg Cole. May) })
he’ll let him stay until he comes back this we |
I'll get down on my knees to him, ma.’ i \:
Then he stood up and started down t\})>
steps to get his horse. He was about at tf
corner of the house when they heard ti}
horses. It was only a gentle thudding at ir
hoofs hitting soft ground, and then in ay :
it was a regular pounding, and they coul i i
two riders coming up to the house. |
Dicie’s ma looked up slowly, and then all.
once her hands locked tight in her lap, and h })
face crumpled into lines and tears, and § Ki
choked, a great, gasping sob broke loose ai }
she clamped her mouth tight to stop the trer }):

the boy. It was Dicie’s boy. There was i}}
mistake. He sat his horse proud, his head he
high and his black hair shining. His eyes we
like hers, too, big dark eyes that said he wi
proud and aimed to stand by his pa no me}
ter what came. i.
Dicie’s ma sat still and cried softly, a
Adam stood still and waited.
“T wouldn’t trade my boy,” Cole said, “iff
matter what terms.” His voice was husky alr :
full of feeling, and he was looking at Dici¢
ma with the kind of look he must have he
for Dicie. “But I reckon I could give him i}
you for a while, if you want him. It’s roughy})
ahead, and he could stay until I get back th}
way.” 1
Dicie’s ma’s hands unclasped and shi}
reached out, then she gave her eyes a goci}!
wipe, and stood up, and smiled, and Ad, }
stepped forward to get a good look at the bo} }}
‘““How about it, son?” he said softly. ““Yol}
want to ride with me for a while? Till yourpy)
comes back?” ; |
The boy nodded. He looked at his fathe
and Cole gave him a pat. ““You mind yoll}
grandpa,” he said; ‘“‘he’ll make a man of you.)
Then Cole swung around and was gone. |
For a minute the boy looked uneasy, ani}
Adam reached out and took the _halte
“He'll be back,” Adam said. “Don’t yo |
worry, son, he’ll be back.” |
It was what he should have said to Dicie, a}
that time ago. He knew it now. The wor dj
even came easy, and natural, almost as if shi
knew he meant them for her too. EN}

bling.
It was Cole all right, and this time nell |

NEXT
MONTH

The night the white-robed riders ap
peared on the streets of Greenwool
Georgia, Hallie was practicing a pian
piece for Miss Corrine’s wedding. Tf
a moment, everything was changed
Would the wedding ever take plac)
after this? And would she ever be abl
to look at Miss Corrine, Mr. Jess, Adaiy
or her own father without thinking
the bitter secret she must keep forever
4

A DREAM |

OF MANSIONS !

By NORRIS LLOYD |

complete in the March Journal, cout
densed from the novel soon to be pub

lished by Random House.

EIRUARY, 1962

E FORBIDDEN GARDEN

), INUED FROM PAGE 55

ley glanced resignedly at her good shoes
followed her employer outside.
he lengthening shadows were chilly, the
‘still warm. A faint autumny fragrance
2 from the cottonwoods, so vividly yellow
) the very air under them glowed. Mrs.
able grasped the poplar; Miss Tinsley
wed with a bag of peat moss.

ye hole Juan had dug looked almost deep
ugh to swallow the entire tree, but that
}the way Mrs. Marrable always planted,
ithe flourishing results justified her. Now,
ing a stone away from the edge, she bent
bok critically in, let out a little cry, and
thed exploringly at her bosom. “My
Ph!”

Did it fall in?’’ Miss Tinsley also bent. “‘I
it see it.”
Jown there—no, there—almost under that
ye clump ee
Jiss Tinsley’s last and accurate thought
/that she was going to have to go down
| the hole; behind her Mrs. Marrable bent
Itly for the stone, straightened, and struck
jintidy head with all the force of her small
ly.

{iss Tinsley pitched instantly in. From the
br disjointed huddle in which she subsided
je bottom, the fall seemed to have broken
lneck. It hardly mattered, as nothing could
+ repaired the back of her head.
) pair of tiny rose-breasted birds chased
4 other into and out of the cottonwood, a
inb of dirt dislodged itself and rolled lazily
in onto the occupant of the hole. Mrs.
trable sprinkled peat moss. Methodically,

all elderly woman whose main interest
her gardening, she planted her fifth poplar.

ihe only daughter of a retired colonel, Mrs.
able had been taught early that appear-
2s were everything. Inadequate meals did
matter, nor servants whose wages were
+ overdue—as long as the servants were
rtly uniformed.

e@ married late, a bulletheaded man

ity-five years older than she, with cold

r eyes and considerable oil holdings. Or

veryone thought. When Joseph Marrable

_ at the age of eighty-five, Mrs. Marrable,

with only her mother’s jewelry and her

oand’s life insurance—and not much of

—was believed to be a wealthy widow.

nother woman might have sold the jewelry,

sted the modest capital, and eked out a

t but respectable existence; Mrs. Marrable

broader ideas. A nephew was doing well

he investment business in Albuquerque,
after a field trip there she bought an old
be in the North Valley.

. good half of her capital went into the
e, but it was a shrewd investment. Mrs.
able cleaned her diamonds, ordered her
er by the quarter pound, and settled down

ye an eccentric old woman of considerable
ns.

spite of her childhood training, she was
orised at how well such a deception
ked. The very economies she practiced
ed a matter of tolerant amusement to
orge Marrabie and his elegant catlike wife,
a, and Mrs. Marrable found early that the
per her tongue, the greater their defer-
e. They would never have owned to an
t living on a pittance—Julia would have
ted her like an unwelcome servant—but
¥ wooed Mrs. Marrable with expensive
istmas and birthday gifts.
Ost important of all, they were hers to
mand. At a summons, George, a large
-cut man, and Julia, in her minks or her
1 silk suits, would drop everything and
€ out, bringing flowers or candied fruit or
iece of black pottery from one of their
s to San Ildefonso.
Ine evening George telephoned to say that
land Julia were worried about her out there
he country. A woman who had done
ing for Julia’s mother had been pensioned
on the conditiorthat she spend a month
1 Mrs. Marrable before she retired.
It doesn’t commit you to anything, unless
| like her,” said George anxiously. ‘‘But

re known to be a woman living alone e
|

With the acerbity that worked such won-
ders for her, and a relenting, ‘Oh, very well,”
Mrs. Marrable accepted what might have been
called her pilot companion.

Miss Beauvais was a French Canadian,
almost Mrs. Marrable’s age, but wiry, tireless
and talkative. She had been very saving, and
had a nice nest egg, about $10,000. Sometimes
she thought of investing it, but then she felt
safer with it in the bank. ‘I have a sister in
Quebec—she’ll be glad of it when I die.”

Because of Julia and George, Miss Beauvais
left Mrs. Marrable’s house in perfect health
at the end of the month. But an idea had been
planted. Surely there were other elderly
women, spinsters or widows, who had a nest
egg and no sister in Quebec? No one to come
and investigate if they suddenly . . . left Mrs.
Marrable’s employ?

No particular line had been crossed, no bar-
rier passed; this was a seed that had flowered
secretly in Mrs. Marrable’s mind. She said
pleasantly to George when he telephoned,
“You're quite right, I do feel much more se-
cure. ... No, Miss Beauvais was anxious to
go and visit her sister. . . . I don’t trust agen-
cies; I believe I'll advertise.”

Ms. Marrable received a number of an-
swers to her discreet

Mature companion to older woman in North
Valley. Pleasant surroundings. Cooking, no
housework.

She chose a Mrs. Bosworth, who met all
the careful specifications. Savings of her own:
“Pll be very frank, Mrs. Bosworth. I hope
this will be a permanent position for you, but
I don’t want you to take it in the hope of a
bequest in my will. I have relatives here in
Albuquerque, and of course that is all taken
care of... . Oh, I see. Then that isn’t a con-
sideration.”

The lack of relatives: “I’m an old woman,
and my heart isn’t strong. I don’t want some-
one who will be running off to mind sick
grandchildren or attend weddings, or
No? Admirable; I think we’ll do very well.”

And they did, for three months and three
salary checks which Mrs. Marrable promised
herself she would get back. She announced
gratifiedly that a stock of hers had doubled
and showed every sign of continuing to rise.
She jotted in the margin of her newspaper,
saying as if to herself, “Four... no, four
thousand five hundred. Very nice indeed.”

Mrs. Bosworth made inquiries about this
rewarding stock. Mrs. Marrable was brisk
and dismissing: her own money was one thing,
she said; responsibility for someone else’s was
quite another. Mrs. Bosworth was not to
think of it.

Predictably, she not only thought of it, she
insisted, and Mrs. Marrable gave in grace-
fully. Offered a check for $6000, all Mrs.
Bosworth possessed in the world, she said in
a tone of authority that there was a discount
for cash. The bank might possibly be inter-
ested in Mrs. Bosworth’s reason for closing
out her account, and as it was a very sensitive
market—Mrs. Marrable said this forebod-
ingly—it would be wiser not to mention any-
thing about investments. ““You could say,”
she suggested, “that you’re going on a trip.”

Murder, the hollow echoing word itself, was
not allowed to enter her mind. With Mrs.
Bosworth’s cash in a tapestry knitting bag,
she went into Albuquerque, ostensibly to have
her broker carry out this delicate transaction,
actually to open an account in the name of
Mrs. James Wilson. She explained to a bank
official that she would prefer to call for her
statements herself, and was put down toler-
antly as one of those suspicious little old
ladies who had probably been hoarding money
in her mattress for years.

Mrs. Bosworth, pleased and excited about
her business venture, became a nuisance at
once. She took an almost proprietary interest
in the financial page of the newspaper; and
although she had been docile in the beginning
about not knowing the exact nature of her un-
listed stock, she began to ask more and more
penetrating questions. It was obvious that she
would have to be silenced.

Ironically, Mrs. Bosworth provided the
means for her own exit. One of the bathroom
pipes had burst, and plumbers were digging

behind the house. Mrs. Bosworth, passing the
hole, said with a little shiver, “I'd hate to fall
in that.”

A pity she hadn’t, reflected Mrs. Marrable
grimly—but this was not the only hole in the
world. In fact, holes, in this blazing country,
were readily explained. Trees. Now that she
thought about it, a tree would be very nice
at the edge of the lawn... .

Mrs. Bosworth became the first poplar.

Mrs. Marrable was braced for some kind
of inquiry—she even took the trouble to char
a spot in the floor of the guest room to explain
why she had dismissed the woman—but none
ever came, except, mildly, from George and
Julia.

Mrs. Marrable exhibited the spot on the
floor. ““She might have burned us both in our
beds,” she said indignantly. “Really, the care-
lessness ——” ‘

In the course of three years, dotted with
failures—women who kept a close hold on
their savings, or turned out to have exag-
gerated their means, or did not like life with
such an imperious, penny-pinching old woman
and left—Mrs. Marrable had amassed a little
over $27,000. She was not aiming at great
wealth, merely a continuing of the existence
she enjoyed—a weekly cleaning woman and
gardener, an occasional trip to Phoenix or El
Paso, a nicely chilled martini before the dinner
someone else had prepared and would wash
up after. Perhaps most of all, the deference
and cosseting from George and Julia, the
heady feeling of power.

On her first Christmas in Albuquerque,
George and Julia gave her a pair of beauti-
fully wrought branched candlesticks. On the
second, an exquisite Chimayo rug. Last Christ-
mas, in their anxiety—or possibly their hope—
over Mrs. Marrable’s bad attack of flu, George
and Julia had tendered the platinum, dis-
creetly diamonded lapel watch.

And all Mrs. Marrable had to do was be
suitably critical and sharp-tempered with them
both.

On this October afternoon, Mrs. Marrable
gave a last tamping to the earth around her
new poplar, put the shovel back in the garage,
and returned to the house to erase Miss
Tinsley’s outer presence.

Clothes and toilet articles went speedily into
the suitcase, to be burned or buried later; the
suitcase itself was initialed, and would have
to be disposed of at a point distant from the
house. For the moment, Mrs. Marrable put
it at the very back of her closet, taking out at
the same time her canvas shopping bag. Empty
pint whisky bottles, garnered from the dump
that afternoon, jostled inside it; Mrs. Marrable
stowed them behind stacked towels on a shelf
in Miss Tinsley’s bath.

She was none too soon. With an important
crunching on her crushed-stone driveway,
George Marrable arrived.

A little out of breath, and very genuinely
angry, Mrs. Marrable went to the front door.
She said instantly, “Is Julia ill?’ and, at
George’s bewildered denial, “I thought it was
an emergency, that otherwise you would have
telephoned first. But my nap can wait.”

George was as ill-at-ease as she had intended
him to be. He said, running a deprecating
hand over his hair, “‘We’ve had a call from

friends of friends in the East ——’’ He inter-
rupted himself to ask curiously, ‘““Where’s
Miss Tinsley?”

Mrs. Marrable’s breath checked; there on
the floor beside her accustomed chair stood
Miss Tinsley’s black-calf pocketbook. How
had she forgotten that? Somehow she gath-
ered her voice again; she said grimly, “Don’t
mention that woman’s name to me,” and
moved slightly so that she stood between him
and Miss Tinsley’s chair. ““Do you remember
I mentioned that she had behaved rather
oddly one evening? Well,” said Mrs. Marrable,
her face distasteful, “I find now that she had
been drinking. She was certainly drunk to-
day.”

George gaped, visibly recalling Miss Tin-
sley’s rabbity presence. “Drunk ?”

“Of course I sent her packing. The language
she used Her room reeks of liquor; per-
haps you can find it, although I looked.”’

George, guided patiently, eventually discov-
ered the cache of bottles behind the towels.

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100

He said in an awed voice, “She certainly put
it away, didn’t she? Like me to put these
outside for you?”

When he came back into the house, he re-
membered his errand. It concerned the small
cottage across and obliquely down the road.
Would she rent it for a month or so to a
friend of friends, a young woman from the
East with an ailing nephew?

A neighbor—and a woman at that, watch-
ing, noticing ——— Mrs. Marrable shook her
gray head firmly. “I don’t feel up to the cares
of a landlord, George.”

The ruddy face fell, which meant that his
friends were wealthy, Mrs. Marrable reflected ;
money always went straight to George’s heart.
He said, ““You know best, of course, Aunt
Elsa, but it’s too bad. The boy’s out here for
his health; his aunt, a Miss Crewe, is strange
to the Southwest and doesn’t know which way
to turn.”

Was his glance very slightly puzzled? Had
he seen the black pocketbook—now safely
under the couch—or, seeing it, recognized it
as Miss Tinsley’s?

A sharp little pulse of fury beat in Mrs.
Marrable’s throat: She said coldly, “‘As this
young woman’s comfort seems to be so very
pressing, I suppose she may have the cottage
for a month. But make it clear that she takes
it as she finds it; at my time of life I really
cannot be running about with light bulbs
and frying pans.”

George said hastily that he would see to ev-
erything, that Miss Crewe and the boy would
certainly appreciate it, and that he was sorry
about having disturbed her nap. At the door
he added concernedly, “You shouldn't be
alone here, you know, Aunt Elsa. What will
you do—advertise again?”

The thick dark gray eyebrows arched over
the hooded-turtle green eyes. “‘Certainly,”
said Mrs. Marrable.

Although the mutual friend who was a link
between George Marrable and Harriet Crewe’s
brother had theoretically explained about
James’s asthma, Harriet still had to clarify the
situation. She said to George when he met
them at the airport, ““There’s a brand-new
sister, not able to travel yet. It didn’t seem
advisable to wait until she is.”

Into this statement were capsuled James’s
last severe attack of flu, his following week in
an oxygen tent, the doctor’s flat, ““Get him
out of this climate, fast,’ to a man whose wife
was just commencing a difficult labor.

Fortunately there was Harriet, and there
were planes. When James’s new sister was six
hours old, he and Harriet were lifting steeply
out of Idlewild.

Now, driving in George Marrable’s car
between shorn gold fields, with the mountains
rearing bluely to the east, it seemed to Harriet
that James was already a little less blue about
the lips, a little more alive and small-boyish.
As she was thinking this, George Marrable
said, ‘Here we are—up ahead, on the right.”

Perhaps because of the light in which she
first saw it, it would have seemed impossible
to Harriet then that the cottage should ever
become a place of terror. Small blue-doored
white adobe, taking gracefully a reflection of
pale gold from sheltering cottonwoods. Lots
of windows, lawn; from somewhere, the
lament of an invisible cow.

| here were a fair-sized living room, a small
bedroom for James, another for Harriet, anda
complete little kitchen whose back door
opened on an arc of red-brick patio. What en-
chanted Harriet was the view to be had from
almost every room: the Sandias, blue a short
time ago, now a shadow-creased cream and

topaz.

Harriet and James settled into the cottage
gratefull: e a pair of homeless animals. It
was a lw o have a permanently based
toothbrush clothes on hangers, food

that could b id

Apart from

plished seemed

It had been essen

dry climate; well, he
At present James

vithout ritual or delay.
Harriet’s mission-accom-
eculiarly hollow victory.
» get James to a high,
vas, and what next?

i talker. It was not

the usual excited spat: childhood, but a
mild, reflective stream of consciousness. He
had seen a lizard under the woodpile that

morning, a very dark blue one with a spot
of white on its throat. Did Harriet like Theo-
dore Roosevelt? Mrs. Marrable had shown
him the bird feeder in her garden.

Harriet came fully to attention: above all
she did not want a politely worded request to
keep her nephew at home. “‘James, you’re not
to go over there. I told you, remember?”

The round blue gaze, enormous in the small
face, made her feel a monster of severtty.
“But I help her with the weeding,” said James
defensively. ““She said I did.”

Harriet had a reasonably clear idea of
James’s help: the steady flow of questions, the
volunteering of a large stock of random infor-
mation, the total dismantling of one weed.
She said weakly, “Well... but not every day
and you’re never to go to the door.”

James looked indignant at her notion that
he would; he was an extremely proper and
conventional child and did not, Harriet sus-
pected, wholly approve of her.

But she continued to worry about the fre-
quency of the visits to Mrs. Marrable’s gar-
den; George had been pointed about his
aunt’s reluctance over any involvement with
tenants. Suppressing her own growing curi-
osity about the old lady across the road, she
rented a car and began driving herself and
James on short occasional trips.

Coming back from one of these, perhaps a
mile from the cottage, she passed a small
elderly woman walking briskly, wearing Sher-
lock Holmesish tweeds with a matching cap,
cotton stockings, and sturdy low-heeled shoes.
Even before James’s pleased and possessive
announcement, Harriet knew that this was
Mrs. Marrable.

Civility demanded that she halt the car, in-

troduce herself and offer a lift. Mrs. Marrable, -

examining her with disconcerting green eyes,
declined briskly; this, she said, was her consti-
tutional.

“But I want to thank you, Miss Crewe, for
the occasional loan of James. Quite apart
from his weeding abilities, he seems to know a
good deal about dinosaurs.”

Harriet smiled politely. “I hope you won’t
let him become a bother.”

Mrs. Marrable’s eyes rested
James. “Oh, he’s never that.”

So that was Mrs. Marrable. A rather tart,
cosmopolitan old woman who wore her
flashing rings and wrinkled stockings with
equal aplomb—perhaps an odd resident for
the valley, but, except for seeing to it that
James did not wear out his welcome in that
quarter, of no concern to Harriet. Why, then,
was she going back over every word and ges-
ture of that short encounter, looking for some-
thing that had surprised her?

Mrs. Marrable’s glance at James. It had
held none of the tolerance or amusement that

briefly on

might have been expected; it had been totally
cold and expressionless.

I mustn't let him go there so much, thought
Harriet vaguely, but the little brush of strange-
ness on her mind was already fading, and by
the time they reached the cottage it was gone.

/|
M rs. Marrable watched the car out of sight,
and deliberately did not respond to the er-
ratically waving arm in the rear window. Her
feet moved steadily, her cane came down
measuredly on the gravelly road edge. No one
could have guessed at the pulse of anger in her
scarf-bound throat.

The boy was nuisance enough—noticing
and perceptive, but hardly to be repelled, un-
der the circumstances. The harm he did to her
borders and the damage to her nerves from
his incessant voice were small beside the risk
of seeming a woman with a secret, a woman
who ordered a small recuperating boy out of
her garden.

And now here was his aunt—not the dis-
traught, inefficient woman George’s descrip-
tion had led her to expect, but an extremely
poised girl who was courteous but not defer-
ential. Mrs. Marrable liked a rounded face
and a wealth of hair in young women, and
Miss Crewe’s face was economically spare,
her hair a polished dark curve except where
wind had ruffled it. Most of all, Mrs. Marra-
ble had not liked the intelligent black-lashed
gray eyes—very faintly curious, surely?

This was George’s doing, and he would pay
for it. Meanwhile, Mrs. Marrable would rid
herself of the girl and the child promptly at
the end of the stipulated month. If any exten-
sion of the lease were asked, she would say
that she had promised the cottage to a friend
from San Francisco.

Mrs. Marrable reached her house none too
soon. Mrs. Dimmock, her new companion,
was due to arrive at four o’clock; it was now a
little after three.

Mrs. Alice Dimmock was a widow, aged
fifty-three, who had taken up practical nursing
after her husband’s death. She had moved to
New Mexico the preceding year with a wealthy
patient who was now recovered. She had no
family and, away from her apartment for
weeks at a time on cases, no close friends. As
she had no church affiliations, she would not
be going tiresomely off at inconvenient hours.
She did not drink or smoke.

Mrs. Marrable did not allow herself to esti-
mate or even think about the size of Mrs.
Dimmock’s nest egg, although something told
her it was not inconsiderable. Perhaps at some
future time ——

In spite of the crisp nights, the new poplar
was taking hold nicely. Mrs. Marrable had
cut it back, and a few early cottonwood leaves
had drifted down warmly on the raw earth.

“Do you realize there isn’t a sitter in town
who will touch you with a ten-foot pole?”

a He” &

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

When it grew it would make, with the others
pleasant sloping line of shade; she might p t
lawn chair there, from which to enjoy her ga
den in the late afternoons.

James said on a gray, gold-leafed da
“Mrs. Dimmock spies on people.” +

Harriet said, ““What people?’ before st
could catch herself, and then, with severiti
“If you can say a thing like that, you must t
spying on her.”

James’s large-eyed, pathetic look crept ove
him. He said, “I watch for letters from hom
and she watches our mailbox too.”

“Nonsense, she’s watching theirs.”

““Mrs. Marrable gets their mail,”’ said Ja’
triumphantly. “She always does. Any:
Mrs. Dimmock put something in our mail§@
last night. I saw her.” "q

Harriet felt perturbed. James was not |
liar, but a meticulous observer, and if he sai
that Mrs. Dimmock had put something
their mailbox chances were that she had, hoy
ever odd it seemed. jl

She said casually, “Did you help Mrs. Mai
rable weed today?”

“IT was,” said James in an injured ton
“but Mrs. Dimmock sent me home. §
said’’—his voice minced indescribably—‘**M
Marrable doesn’t want little boys around. R
along home now and play.’ Let her weed he
own damn garden,” said James amazingly. —

Harriet offered to wash his mouth out wit
soap, but she was stiff with anger. If this was
message from Mrs. Marrable—and it coul
hardly be anything else—how much kinder ¢
her to have said it herself, or at least not f
have exalted James in his weeding.

The shift of black branches made the light
of Mrs. Marrable’s house appear to move-
and then, one by one in orderly processior
they went out. The night was complete agair
unpunctured, unperturbed. Harriet switche
off the lamps in the living room and sat dow]
by the window.

Fifteen minutes, half an hour. . . . She wa
merely being vindictive on James’s beha
Harriet realized; she would sit here fruitless
until midnight, while Mrs. Dimmock slef
under her blankets, snug and dreamless. Sh
stood up stiffly in the dark living room, a
dropped instantly back on her chair. /

The short, thick shadow seemed to glide
the faintly paler road. There was no sow
above the wind, but the mailbox flap gleamet
dully, twice. Mrs. Dimmock reappeare
briefly on the road, mingled with shado
and was gone.

She had been there, hadn’t she? Harriet
so stupefied as to not quite believe her o
senses. Bemusedly, she went in to look a
James, proceeded to her own room, took |
lingering bath, brushed her hair with an atten
tion she hadn’t given it since New York. A
this consumed an hour—by which timé
surely, Mrs. Dimmock was in bed. And afte
all, whose mailbox was it?

Shivering in her warmest robe, Harrie
went out into the dark. She opened the mail
box, slid a postal card out, and walked rap
idly back behind the shelter of her car to lig
a match. The communication that Mrs. Dim
mock was sending off with such secrecy wa:
addressed on one side to Mr. Hugh Darrah
at a street address in Albuquerque. The othe
side was completely blank.

James was more talkative than usual in tht
morning, Harriet less attentive. She poach
his egg, drank her own coffee, and said ab
sently, ‘‘That’s nice,” to a number of probably
horrifying statements.

What, if anything, should she do about Mrs
Dimmock ?

She was only a tenant, and what went on it
Mrs. Marrable’s household was hardly a con
cern of hers; on the other hand, it was through
George Marrable that she was here at all, anc
he had expressed his concern over his aunt
What if interference on Harriet’s part were tc
lose Mrs. Dimmock her job—but again, wha
if noninterference were to result in harm com:
ing to Mrs. Marrable?

The problem was solved for her at nine
thirty; it was not Mrs. Marrable who strollec

CONTINUED ON PAGE 10:

J ARY, 1962

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102
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 100

past the shielding trees to her mailbox, but
Mrs. Dimmock.

Coincidence, or design? Harriet snatched
up a postal card, scribbled her brother’s name
and address and ‘‘J. fine, writing soon, H.,”
and was out in the crisp gold-and-shadows
morning.

She did not glance across the road, but the
sharpness of Mrs. Dimmock’s attention was
like the tightening of an invisible string be-
tween them. As though deaf to the sound of the
approaching mail car, Harriet opened the box,
started to slide her postal card in, took out the
one that lay there, and examined it with a
puzzlement that was easily visible from twenty
yards away.

The mail car, a dusty old blue Ford, pulled
up; Harriet handed in the two postal cards,
took three letters in exchange, and chatted a
minute with the cheerful young driver. What
she said was good morning, and wasn’t it
chilly out of the sun. But for all Mrs. Dim-
mock knew, she was disclaiming all knowledge
of the card addressed to Hugh Darrah, and
asking if the driver remembered picking up any
others from this box.

The blue Ford crawled to the Marrable
mailbox, gathered speed and was gone. Har-
riet lingered nonchalantly in the sun, and be-
hind her Mrs. Dimmock’s light, breathless
voice said, ‘I’m afraid you’ve found me out,
Miss Crewe.”

“Oh?” said Harriet,
“How?”

“My postcard—though it wasn’t much ofa
postcard, was it?—to my godson. You see’ —
the discreetly blued white curls tipped to one
side, the guilelessly clear eyes twinkled at Har-
riet—‘‘he worries about me, way out here in
the country. He made me promise to write, but
I warned him I’d be too busy and I thought
that blank card might teach him a lesson.”
Seeming to feel that something else was want-
ing, Mrs. Dimmock added with an air of
apologetic loyalty, ““Mrs. Marrable always
has correspondence to be taken care of, and
she doesn’t approve of her companions’ carry-
ing on their own. So I took the liberty of put-
ting it in your box.”

Not if, thought Harriet, disbelieving this
look of unimpeachable innocence as much as
anything else; them. And what palpable non-
sense it all was anyway. The worrying god-
son—well, possibly. But not even difficult, de-
manding old Mrs. Marrable could object to a
postal card. Particularly a blank one.

She said coolly, ‘“‘How is Mrs. Marrable?
You can assure her, by the way, that my
nephew won’t be bothering her again.”’

Mrs. Dimmock ignored the last part of that.
“Not too well this morning—she seems to
have eaten something that’s disagreed with
her. I do hope she’s better tomorrow, it’s her
birthday.”” The demure pink mouth smiled
tolerantly. “Just which one she won’t say, but
at her age, and with her heart, they’re all an
accomplishment now.”

“Oh, really?’ Harriet could not have ex-
plained her own hostile reaction. “Il would
have said she looked very strong and well in-
deed.”

““Nerve,”’ explained Mrs. Dimmock wisely.
*‘She’s living on her nerve.”

Ms. Marrable watched from her dining-
room window, and tried to analyze her in-
stinctive fear of Harriet Crewe, because fears
once taken apart could never regain their
whole strength. Was it the faint curiosity in
the gray eyes? The presence of the perceptive,
question-asking child? The fact that the two of
them had sprung out of nowhere, through
George?

Mrs. Marrable put a hand briefly over her
heart until she remembered that it was per-
fectly fine; she had simply made so much use
of it as a delicate organ that she was more
aware of it than, say, her liver.

George. ... Ridiculous. He and Julia were a
pair of greedy fools, living up to their income,
confident of the large legacy which would
shortly be coming. No, Mrs. Marrable
amended to herself, Julia was greedy, but far
from a fool. And George, whatever random
question might raise itself in his essentially
dense mind, was the last man to suspect, or

turning and smiling.

even allow suspicion to be directed toward,
his wealthy old aunt.

Mrs. Dimmock was really a prize. The
woman was cheerful, but she did not hum.
She effaced herself quietly but with poise. She
was even a good cook, although she did not
know what to do with game. To think of last
night’s pheasant, a gift from George and
Julia, made Mrs. Marrable crampish again.
Mrs. Dimmock had devoured hers with relish,
but then she probably did not know what to
expect of pheasant. She had said surprisedly
to Mrs. Marrable, “Bitter? Oh, do you think
so? Mine isn’t—it’s delicious, really. Perhaps
you’ve a cold coming on; that can affect your
sense of taste.”’

Fortunately Mrs. Marrable had eaten very
little of the pheasant, but she had spent a rest-
less night, full of unpleasant wakings and
equally unpleasant dreams. They would sim-
ply not have pheasant in future, decided Mrs.
Marrable.

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When Jeffery James Rankin was born
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bank. Yet

and today is thriving,

in the Jeffery James was a

“planned baby”
lively, pink-cheeked.

For the 4,200,000 babies born in the
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was $1000 (hospital bills, doctors, food,
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How do parents such as Jeffery James’s,
with an income of $4560, pay these bills?

OUR BABY
IS EVERYBODY’S
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next in the
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in the March Journal
LL ET Se ee ee ee

Mrs. Dimmock moved springily about be-
tween dining room and kitchen, setting the
table, raising and lowering pot lids, finally
bringing in lunch. Creamed asparagus on
toast and a small glass of white wine for Mrs.
Marrable, a cheese sandwich for Mrs. Dim-
mock.

Over coffee, Mrs. Dimmock said medita-
tively, ‘‘People—particularly nurses, as I used
to be—are always curious about their prede-
cessors. Sometimes it’s to keep from making
the same mistakes. That can be a help, you
know.”

Mrs. Marrable glanced sharply into the
guileless pink face and set down her cup with
care. She said, ‘In the interests of not spread-
ing scandal, I won’t name names, but your
predecessor turned out to be quite a drinker.”’

Mrs. Dimmock’s eyes widened. “You don’t
mean she a

“Got drunk,’ supplied Mrs. Marrable
brusquely. “She certainly did. Used vile lan-
guage, threw things about—I was very lucky
to have got her out of the house.”

Mrs. Dimmock shook her head wonder-
ingly. ““And I suppose you’d never know, to
look at her?’’

““Oh, there were signs,” said Mrs. Marrable
darkly. “I imagine that as a nurse you’ve seen
some odd specimens too.”

“Have I not,” said Mrs. Dimmock cheer-
fully, picking up her sewing; if the devil did
not find work for idle hands, Mrs. Marrable
would. ‘‘Dear me, you’d be surprised.”’

Like a number of people, Mrs. Marrable
had a rather fearful interest in medical se-
crets—the more so as they appeared to repose
so cozily under Mrs. Dimmock’s tidy curls.

When her companion reached serenely for a
button, she said proddingly, “Peculiar in-
valids, I suppose?”

Mrs. Dimmock gave her light, tolerant
laugh. “‘I’d say the families were often more
peculiar than the invalids. In fact, sometimes,
where there’s money’’—the button was in
place now, and the needle stabbed sharply
up through it—‘tyou wonder whether what-
ever happened was accidental.”’ She lifted her
gaze significantly and dropped it again to the
flashing needle.

Mrs. Marrable went as usual to lie down,
but a few random gossipy words had thrown
her mind into a turmoil. Possibly the wine had
not gone well with the cream sauce, because
she felt extraordinarily queasy.

“‘Where there’s money,’ Mrs. Dimmock
had said.

The pheasant, George’s pheasant, so oddly
bitter.

The diamond lapel watch, tendered when
she lay critically ill—but she had recovered.

Nonsense. Even spurred on by Julia,
George would not ——
Presently Mrs. Marrable got up and

changed into her old tweeds, ready for her
walk; she was at the door, cane in hand, when
the telephone rang.

It was Julia, dropping her assured Junior
League voice for a fonder tone. ‘Aunt Elsa,
how are you?”

“Quite well, thank you. As usual,” said
Mrs. Marrable dryly. She never, as a matter of
principle, inquired after Julia’s health.

“I’m calling about tomorrow. George and
I have a little something for you, and we
thought we’d drive out at about six, if that’s
convenient for you, and perhaps have a birth-
day toast before we take you to dinner.”

So George had found a rare old vintage,
which he would anxiously await her reaction
to, and the little something mentioned so air-
ily had cost them a good deal. “That would be
very nice,” conceded Mrs. Marrable. ‘““Six—
yes, six would be fine.”

“We'll see you then. Oh—how was the
pheasant?”

There was only solicitude in her voice, but
Mrs. Marrable smiled grimly at the opposite
wall. “Delightful,” she said.

The wind of the night before had been only
a preliminary blow. It rose again, rushing at
the cottage as though out of the whole black
valley it had found a single prey. Rain began
to prickle at the windows. By nine o’clock
thunder was crashing; the lightning, before
Harriet hastily drew the living-room curtains,
vivid white trickles over the invisible moun-
tains. Here for such a short time, she could
nevertheless appreciate the gratitude of the
land for the soaking rain.

It was time, past time, for her weekly report
on James. Settled in the small blue armchair
opposite the front door, notepaper on a maga-
zine, Harriet wrote:

Dear Ann and Hal: James goes for another
checkup next week, but you wouldn’t believe his
appetite. He

Something plunged against the door. Har-
riet’s head snapped up, her heart banged, al-
though the door was locked. After a tiny
breath-held interval there was a scratching on
the glass of the front window,a blind seeking
sound that turned her cold until it was fol-
lowed by a throaty whimper.

Foolish with relief, she went to the door
and opened it a little. The most enormous dog
she had ever seen pushed past her into the
lighted room.

Half collie, half . . . cow? Collie head, any-
way, beautiful slender brown and white; enor-
mous barrel poised on long girlish legs;
sweeping, plumy tail. No collar with tags.
“Who are you?” said Harriet, and the deli-
cate jaws parted in a smile, the tail swished,
the huge body collapsed trustingly on the rug.

Let it stay until the storm was over—not
her decision, really, because the dog looked
immovable. It seemed to know the cottage; it
did not circle the room, or sniff at chairs and
tables, or go through any of the reconnoiter-
ings of a strange dog. It simply basked in the
warm dry shelter, soft eyes unwinking on her.

By ten-thirty the rain was only a faint
splashy toss in the dripping cottonwood. Har-

|
ie

LADIES’ HOME Joy.

riet held the front door open, and said
mandingly, “Out.” The dog waved j
kindly at her. It was not going anywhe
night. After a few more stern and una:
orders, Harriet gave up and went to bec

In the morning there was snow o
mountains, remote and dazzling. The
greeted Harriet and James with hosp
pleasure and refused to go out until
great craft, Harriet fed it a large bowl c
ter. Perhaps half an hour later the telepg
rang, and she lifted the receiver on Mrs,
rable’s sharp voice. “I believe you had
there, Miss Crewe?”

-
i
1

\
A man, thought Harriet irrelevantly, y
probably not have shocked Mrs. Mar
half so much. “Just for the night. It ch
during the storm, and I couldn’t get it ov

“It has dug holes in my lawn,” said
Marrable measuredly, ‘‘and ruined seve
my best chrysanthemums. You do reme
that I stipulated no pets.”

She seemed almost to be trembling
anger. Harriet, restraining herself, said
that the dog had merely taken refuge; she)
not known it would prove so immovabl
answer to a further query she said that ne }
had not fed the dog.

“Good,” said Mrs. Marrable more a
ately. “I dare say you think I’m a crank
my garden means a good deal to me. I’ve
considerable time and effort and money)
it, and it’s one place I won’t have trespas
James, of course, is welcome, but then J
is not a large animal.”

How unfair, thought Harriet, hangin,
moments later, to fluctuate so toward ac
One day he was unwanted, the next he’)
welcome. Unless, of course, the stateme
Mrs. Marrable did not want to be bothere
little boys was Mrs. Dimmock’s own in
tion. Was it possible that Mrs. Dimmock, |
carried on her correspondence so peculié
did not care to have any spectator on the
mediate scene, especially a curious, rem)
bering boy like James?

For the first time since her arrival,
looked around at the white-painted co
with something that was, as yet, only a
distaste. Partly to dispel it, partly beca
had promised James days ago, she too
that afternoon to a ceremonial dance
pueblo north of Albuquerque, and to dir
afterward. She would have been much h
pier if Mrs. Marrable, with George and J
and bowing waiters in attendance, had not)
tered the inn dining room and been seated {|
tables away.

She was driving back to the cottage wl
the edge of her headlights picked up thet)
coated figure of a man walking rapid
Mrs. Marrable’s driveway. The front dj
was open to meet him, as though there wer re.
time to lose. He slipped inside, and the
closed rapidly behind him.

How swiftly Mrs. Dimmock had
moned .;. . was it Hugh Darrah? And not
a fond godmotherly chat; not with —
urgently held door, that rapid entry.

What, then? A forcing of locks, a rifling
drawers? Perhaps a tying up of Mrs. D
mock, to support the story of a man who]
threatened his way in?

In her unease, Harriet forgot James’s ni
pill. She got it for him, and was standiaa
side his bed waiting for him to swallow
last of his water when she saw the tope
man walking rapidly back along the roa
spite of his haste, he was hungry for a
rette; he halted, and the cupped flare
match showed a dark eyebrow before it
out. Harriet took an instinctive step bac
ward, even though she was invisible int
near-darkness of James’s room, when |
turned his head and appeared to stare direc
at her, then recommenced his rapid stride.
few minutes later there was the faint, unm
takable slam of a car door.

Harriet retreated to her bedroom and W
asleep almost as soon as her hand left t
light switch, but twice in the night she wo
to the scratch of nails on glass and the shu
der of weight against wood, the seeking, ¢
termined sounds of the huge dog that kn
the cottage.

CONTINUED ON PAGE 1

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The dog.

Mrs. Marrable was not superstitious, but

she had felt a sweeping coldness at the sight of
the huge brown-and-white shape loping un-
hurriedly across the road. She had been free of

for over a year, and now it was back—be-

cause the cottage was tenanted again. Because
of Harriet Crewe.

Ww
H

After all these months, the dog—its name
as Chloé—could hardly remember Rose
ull, the tenant of the cottage until she be-

came Mrs. Marrable’s second companion. It

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PEL ME 9 ie

its head, a human voice addressing it. And
now the cottage had all those things.

Even if it did remember Rose Hull, there
was nothing for it to find but a poplar between
other poplars. It was a stupid animal to be
coming back at all; the same instinct which
had made it avoid the poisoned meat Mrs.
Marrable had coaxingly laid out in the begin-
ning should have warned it.

But other people were superstitious even if
Mrs. Marrable was not. They were apt to give
dogs almost human emotions, and wonder
that one came persistently to a place where
was no carelessly topped garbage can, no
bowl of water, no welcome of any kind. Chloé,
always a wanderer, had belonged to Rose
Hull for only a few months, but because of
her enormous size there were certainly people
who remembered the association, and people
who remembered were people who might won-
der.

The dog had undoubtedly circled the cot-
tage on many a night, found it dark and silent,
loped back over the fields to wherever its cur-
rent home was. Now Harriet Crewe had re-
opened the cottage, and waked puppy mem-
ories of rugs and floors and furniture.

In a way at once confused and certain, Mrs.
Marrable began to hate Harriet Crewe.

In spite of an unaccustomed cordial, Mrs.
Marrable returned to her house at nine-thirty.
George and Julia did not accept her perfunc-
tory invitation to come in: “I can sit up a few
minutes, although I am rather tired.”

The living room had been immaculately
tidied. The single lamp that was lighted shone
softly on Mrs. Dimmock’s white curls, bent
to her sewing. At Mrs. Marrable’s entrance she
bustled about, taking her employer’s coat,
switching on the lamp beside her chair, in-
quiring if it had been a nice evening.

“Very pleasant.”

‘‘Mrs. George is so attractive, isn’t she?”

The archaic reference fell soothingly on
Mrs. Marrable’s ear; it had an old-family-
retainer ring. But she only said shortly, “I dare
say.”

Mrs. Dimmock, usually so perceptive, did
not seem to take warning. She said chattily,
“Would you care for anything before you go
to bed? One of those delicious-looking jellies
they brought?”

Mrs. Marrable had in fact eaten very little
dinner. Even after Harriet Crewe had left the
inn dining room, walking as though she wore
Julia’s sables instead of a well-cut but not very
new raincoat, the stir of hate was like a physi-
cal seethe. She said thornily, ““Well, yes, if I
must have something,” and Mrs. Dimmock
went light-footedly to the kitchen cupboard
and returned.

The foil and the inner wrapping were tempt-
ingly laid back, and the nested colors glowed
coolly through their faint mist of powdered
sugar: red, orange, yellow, sharp lime. Mrs.
Marrable stretched out a hand, and the lamp-
light seemed to rush into her mother’s large
solitaire. Slowly she drew her hand back; she
said, “I believe it’s too soon after dinner. Have
one yourself, Mrs. Dimmock.”

There was a queer little pause. Then Mrs.
Dimmock said, ““Oh, may I?” and her scrubbed
deft fingers hovered, dipped, chose a lemon
jelly.

She bit into it, grimaced, and reached
hastily into her sweater pocket for a handker-
chief. When she could speak she said, ““It must
be an acquired taste, but oh my!”

Ms. Marrable, sitting coldly still in her
chair, knew exactly what the fruit should taste
like: sweet and cool, with an intriguing or-
chard tartness just under the surface. There
was nothing in it to offend even an unaccus-
tomed palate.

Why was Mrs. Dimmock staring at her so
curiously? With a brusque gesture Mrs. Mar-
rable replaced the lid of the box, glanced at
her watch and rose. She took the box with her
to her room, but she did not eat any. The
lemon was her favorite, as Julia and George
knew, and if her nerves had not been on edge
from the combination of the dog and the pres-
ence of Harriet Crewe behind her at dinner,
she would have selected the lemon unerringly

Balanced against that was the reassuring
thought: They wouldw’t dare. (But what better

SSN Ss

time? thought Mrs. Marrable almost profes-
sionally. On her birthday, when they had
brought her expensive gifts, taken her out,
been seen bending affectionately toward her at
dinner?) And as far as not daring went, was it
here that Harriet Crewe—the convenient
stranger so suddenly installed in the cottage—
might play some as yet undiscovered role?
Surveillance, blackmail, poison—not thoughts
to sleep soundly with, and Mrs. Marrable did
not.

George and Julia knew that they were her
sole legatees. Granted that they were growing
impatient—because it was always wise to be-
lieve the worst—what was the best procedure?

To tell them that she planned to alter her
will would be to precipitate action. To go on
passively as she was would take far too much
toll: quite apart from the chill of this new per-
spective she would not be able to go to dinner
with George and Julia, nor accept any of the
delicacies they sent. Severing herself from
them would destroy a large part of her pleas-
ure in existing.

She woke unrefreshed to a damp gray
morning, but in one of her many restless

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Out of luck.

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Is surely heartbreaking,

You're the valentine, funny,

For me.

wakings she had found at least a temporary
solution. After breakfast she dispatched Mrs.
Dimmock to the garage to find an old leather
jacket in the steamer trunk there and called
George at his office. She made an inquiry
about one of her stocks, and then announced
briskly that she was about to leave for a
checkup at her doctor’s.

George was predictably surprised; Mrs.
Marrable made no secret of her dislike and
distrust of the medical profession en masse.
“TI hope last night wasn’t too much for you,
Aunt Elsa.”

“Not at all. I have simply come to the con-
clusion that a woman of my age ought to take
reasonable precautions ———” She stopped
short. There, across the road, pointed head
searchingly down, came Chloé. Had Harriet
Crewe had the dog in the cottage for the night
again, in spite of her express orders? Mrs.
Marrable’s temples pounded; it was all she
could do to hear what George was saying.
so let us know, will you?”

Small danger that she would not.
said Mrs. Marrable, and hung up.

At a quarter of twelve, figuring out with
fair accuracy the length of time she would
have had to sit in a doctor’s waiting room,
Mrs. Marrable sent Mrs. Dimmock to the
grocery, and called George again.

She had had, she said, an absolutely clear
bill of health. The doctor had said that if all
his patients were as sound as she, he would
soon be in the poorhouse.

“Good!” said George heartily. ‘““That’s great.
I’m meeting Julia for lunch; I'll tell her.”

“Ves,”

Bion * TO ee ee at.

after Miss Tinsley.

q
]

LADIES' HOME JOUR

They would, would they not, hesita |
tamper with a woman whose doctor, ha
theoretically just found her in the bes
health, would be called in to sign the d
certificate?

But Mrs. Marrable was not elated; inj).
cold tidy mind was a shadow of warning }),
she—she—had been driven to such a de},
tion. What her companion had to say at li
shook her further.

Mrs. Dimmock had been thinking it-
for a long time, and had finally decided ty
vest her savings.

“IT know you’re familiar with the mark
said Mrs. Dimmock, turning her clear, h
ful blue gaze on her employer, “‘and I tho},
you might be able to advise me.”

ales Mrs. Marrable, it was as though %r
the leafless poplars had suddenly turnegl
made her a sweeping bow. It struck her cf,
She said at once, “Indeed I can advise ¥
Don’t dream of doing anything so foo {
Mrs. Dimmock.” |
Mrs. Dimmock looked as though she }
been slapped. “But all the experts ——” }]
‘“‘Never mind the experts. The stock maj}

is one thing if you can stand the loss with '
being hurt; it’s quite another if it’s your]
savings you’re putting in.” 1
“But it’s not as though I had anyon
leave it to. The responsibility is all mir
Mrs. Dimmock’s white curls quivered,
rosy skin suffused. ‘I suppose I can starve
please.” f
“Certainly you may—but not on my
vice,” said Mrs. Marrable. ““And now she |
go into the living room?” f
How ironic, she thought behind her ri
cigarette: the days and days of suggestior
quired to produce any response from the:
ers, the spontaneous offer from this wor!
whom she had no wish to rob or harm—pa
because it wasn’t necessary, partly because)
was such a satisfactory companion. Sensi
cheerful, as thrifty as even Mrs. Marre
could desire. Besides, it was much too si

it was on the following morning that}
much weather-stained letter arrived for
Tinsley. l

It was not Miss Tinsley’s name on the.
velope that disturbed Mrs. Marrable
munications had arrived from time to time
other dead women—but its obvious a
though the postmark was indecipherabl
such scrawled notations as “Not at this |
dress” . . . ““Misdelivered here.”’ By all rig
the letter should have been consigned oF
dead-letter office long ago; what kind
prankish fate had persevered with it? ]

In her bedroom she opened the letter ¢
read a few brief badly typed lines: |

Dear Edna: What's the great secret? Coul (
even guess from your call last night. This isj
line to say I hope to be out your way next T)
or Wed. and hope you can get an hour or so of)
we can talk things over. q
Yours in ha

The great secret, thought Mrs. Marral
crumpling the letter and hurling it into
corner fireplace, is that dear Edna is dead. F.
that she was, babbling—but babbling too
tle and too late. And just when, by the w,
had she done that? Mrs. Marrable’s tidy m
went sorting back, found an evening when:
had felt the onset of a cold and retired tol
early with aspirin and her warm milk, lea! "i
the living room to Miss Tinsley.

Al—and what a rakish name to associ
with a watery-eyed wisp of a woman
neither come nor called. The sole inqui
Miss Tinsley, a few days after her burial, f
come from a woman with a light-mannej
telephone voice; in answer to Mrs. Marrabl
‘Miss Tinsley is no longer in my employ, @
I’m afraid I can’t tell you where you co!
reach her,”’ she had said an impersonal tha
you, as though anxious to get on with a list
people to whom she had been instructed
sell something.

As Mrs. Marrable rejoined Mrs. Dimm¢
a tiny muscle under her right eye leaped 4
began to twitch; it went on twitching, —
though she lifted a hand to cover and still
She walked abruptly to the dining-roi

J/=BRUARY, 1962

indow and jerked aside one of the cream
irtains.
| And saw Harriet Crewe, dark hair blown,
/aring at the poplars.
They were ugly and dead-looking without
heir leaves; it was difficult to imagine them in
heir thick lacquered green or upthrusting
‘old. There was certainly nothing about them
» attract and hold that clear gray attention in
ae profile turned to Mrs. Marrable, unless ——
But Harriet Crewe could have no possible
onnection with Miss Tinsley. Mrs. Marrable
salized with shock that the methodical mind
Vhich had carried her safely through the last
‘ree years was beginning to veer in all direc-
‘ons. It was a little like being in a dark room
nd hearing a sound that seemed to come
-om all four corners at once.
| The eye muscle jerked under her shielding
lalm. Mrs. Dimmock gave her a glance of
lindly solicitude. ““You don’t think you might
‘e catching cold? Let me get you some aspirin,
) be on the safe side.”
Mrs. Marrable took the aspirin and retired
1) her bedroom, where she lay very still with a
‘ot cloth over her eyes. Out of the dimly stir-
ling images behind her closed lids came a sud-
jen and welcome answer that she ought to
lave thought of before this: Go away. Taos or
Phoenix or Juarez. She would stay away until
Harriet Crewe’s tenancy was up and the cot-
Age was vacant again; she would resume the
‘ld footing with George and Julia. Her life
Vould regain its pleasant serenity.
| Mrs. Marrable dozed. In what seemed part
of a dream Mrs. Dimmock’s voice said, “Oh,
put you must let me ——” and a man’s an-
wered, ““My own fault, but if you have some

”

Mrs. Marrable leaped roughly off her bed,
yecause it was not a dream. She followed the
»attern of echoes that still hung on the air into
he living room, and found her companion,
julia and a man she had never seen before.
| Julia said breathlessly, ““Oh, Aunt Elsa, I’m
0 sorry—did we wake you?” and introduced
e@ man as Hugh Darrah. She had had a
unch date with a friend in the valley, and on
ser way back from the inn her car had come
jo a baffling halt. Mr. Darrah, a business
riend of George’s, had fortunately happened
vy, but in tinkering with the engine—success-
‘ully—had cut his wrist badly.
| There was no doubt about that, in spite of
iis deprecations; the freshly wrapped gauze
jround his right wrist was beginning to stain.
jt must be a nasty gash indeed to have turned
rs. Dimmock, a nurse, so pale in the back-
‘round.
“How very kind of you, Mr. Darrah,” said
Mrs. Marrable in her brisk dry voice. ““Won’t
ou have a drink by way of our thanks?”
Because with the sleep out of her eyes she
jaw a number of things that she wanted to
xamine. Mr. Darrah was an extremely per-
onable man, much younger than George,
vith intelligent eyes and a |pak of easy activity
>ven when he was standing still. George was
n El Paso. Put those factors along with Julia’s
ightness of bearing, her almost-girlishness,
nd Julia was lying. Mr. Darrah might have
orked on her car engine, but they had been
ogether for some time; it was implicit in their
anner with each other.

ugh Darrah demurred but finally accepted
i drink; Julia had sherry. When Mrs. Dim-
nock arrived with the tray, Mrs. Marrable
said indifferently, ““You’ve met my compan-
on, Mrs. Dimmock,”’ but it seemed that, over
he flurry of Darrah’s wrist, no formal intro-
Juctions had taken place. Mrs. Marrable made
hem,, and watched the man’s face with a
sharpened gaze while he repeated his thanks
for the bandage. She had an impression of
laving seen him before, and recently.
“Do you live in the valley, Mr. Darrah?”
“Temporarily, while my landlord remodels.”
“And you’re in the investment business?”
No, Darrah said; he was with a building
irm which had the contract for a new housing
Jevelopment on the heights. There was the
natter of a loan —— Mrs. Marrable appeared
0 listen attentively, but her mind was already
yn her trip—andégalso the fact that poised,
beautifully groomed Julia should not be al-
lowed to think that she had got away with
anything.

At the door she said pleasantly, ‘Do have
your car seen to, Julia. George would be so
worried if he knew you were driving it around
the valley in that condition.”

Julia’s lashes did not flicker. ““Oh, I shall.
Take care of yourself, Aunt Elsa.”

“Indeed I will,” said Mrs. Marrable.

Harriet, coming back from a walk with
James, saw Julia and Hugh Darrah emerge to-
gether from the house. Carefully unsurprised,
she smiled and waved at Julia behind the
wheel as the red Fiat nosed to the edge of the
driveway.

Greetings were unavoidable. Julia intro-
duced the man beside her, adding, ‘‘Miss
Crewe has Aunt Elsa’s cottage. And this is
little’’-—she paused, groped, and said with
relief, “John.”

James said how do you do with a degree of
reserve. Harriet found herself gazing at Hugh
Darrah’s innocent hazel-eyed face, which said
mutely, You see? All open and aboveboard.
I'm a friend of the family.

But, thought Harriet, watching the Fiat dis-
appear, no ordinary friend of the family would
choose an evening when only the paid com-
panion was at home, park his car a safe dis-
tance away, enter and leave the house with
such urgency.

Besides, Julia hardly looked, in her pearly
cloche and gently fitted suit, like the kind of
family a man like Hugh Darrah was a friend of.

James, who had an appreciative eye for
Fiats, said admiringly as they turned in at the
cottage, ““She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Harriet kicked at a pebble. “In an under-
nourished kind of way,” she said.

M rs. Dimmock was washing up when Mrs.
Marrable went out to the kitchen and said
abruptly, ““We’re going on a little trip.”

The shining stemmed glass slipped under
the flow of water, was recovered just in time
by the deft pink fingers. Mrs. Dimmock, set-
ting it carefully down, cast an inquiring glance
at her employer.

“A trip, a journey,” said Mrs. Marrable
testily. “I thought perhaps Phoenix, before the
bad weather sets in. There are very nice motels
along the way. We'll leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” echoed Mrs. Dimmock in
consternation. “Oh, dear, if I'd known I
would have bought stockings in the village
this morning.”’ She looked down at her sturdy
legs. “These are gone, and they’re my last
pair. And toothpaste. Oh, dear.”

Mrs. Marrable would not have dreamed of
lending either; she had an almost physical
repugnance to such small intimacies. “The
market has both, and you might as well have
the gas and oil checked, too,” she said shortly.
““And get a road map while you're there.”

Mrs. Dimmock departed with obedient
haste. Mrs. Marrable, passing her companion’s
door after the car had gone, heard a drip of
water from the bath. Even the smallest drip
meant work for the electric pump. Annoyed,
she opened the door, proceeded into the
small bath and tightened the faucet.

Apart from that, everything was sparkling:
tiles snowy, towels neatly folded, small glass
shelf over the basin bare, mirror above it pol-
ished. Curiously, Mrs. Marrable pulled the
mirror back, and the cabinet shelves were
equally meticulous. Bath powder, nail scissors,
small bottle of aspirin, tube of toothpaste...
half full. Had Mrs. Dimmock overlooked it?

A rapid search of the bureau drawers yielded
six pairs of stockings, in two boxes of three
each, still in their cellophane.

So Mrs. Dimmock had gone off to the vil-
lage for another errand. Mrs. Marrable
clenched her hands quietly and went over the
possibilities. Drugs of some kind? Hardly,
with that equable nature. A traveling supply
of liquor, to be consumed discreetly in tea or
coffee cups? No again, in view of her cheerful-
ness in the morning, the steadiness of her
hands, the almost childish whites of her eyes.

A telegram, then? A telephone call, although
she had said that she was as good as alone in
the world?

(But then neither had Miss Tinsley admitted
to a friend so interested in her affairs as to be
called surreptitiously, at night.)

CONTINUED ON PAGE 109

107

Know what a dime, one safety
pin, two keys, a tiny flashlight
and a lipstick add up to?

My good friend, Elsa, calls this interesting collection
her “emergency kit.” I call it good insurance. Actually,
almost every woman carries something or other in her
pocket or purse, “just in case”... froma spare bus token

to an extra pair of stockings!
... SENSIBLE DOES

We women like this safe
life’s small emergencies.
And it’s the best thing in
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That’s why more and more
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a Seas > FT

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is likely to have good ideas
on how much insurance is

feeling of being prepared
... of knowing we can meet

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“Can we pay for insurance
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Don’t you have questions
vital to your family’s
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COLLECTION
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But back to Elsa and her
collection. There are ideas
ee fr || of us here, too. That
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when there’s no way of making change at a nearby store.
The safety pin explains itself. A tiny flashlight is impor-
tantly handy after dusk to look for an address, find a key-
hole or foothold. The keys are an extra car key and house
key, should your keychain be lost. And the lipstick is a
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NTINUED FROM PAGE 107

monstrous suspicion entered Mrs. Mar-
ble’s mind, and turned her as cold as ice.
iVhen Mrs. Dimmock returned with stock-
, toothpaste and road map, her employer
is seated at the desk in the living room, writ-
the necessary notes for the milkman and
indryman. She turned her gray head casually.
‘This eye is bothering me. I wonder if
id write and remind Juan to put burlap
br the roses. No, Juan is away, he’s sending
ousin instead. His name is Al, I believe.”
rs. Dimmock took the vacated chair and
ked up the pen. Mrs. Marrable had never
in her companion’s handwriting before: for
sons of thrift she wrote out marketing lists
self (one half pound butter, one bunch car-
s, small) and there had never been occasion
Mrs. Dimmock to leave her a note.
Fascinated, she watched the pen move in a
ge airy ““Al’’ and did not see the rest.
Al, whom she had automatically thought of
/a man, was a woman friend of Miss Tin-
dy’s, a friend to whom she had mentioned a
reat secret,’ a friend who would know that
Miss Tinsley drunkenness—the ostensible
ason for her dismissal—was as unthinkable
a G string.
Al was Alice Dimmock, who sat looking up
Mrs. Marrable with her clear, innocent
ie eyes.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Marrable into a
ny eternity which, she knew on another level,
Id not have lasted beyond two heartbeats.
Ve’ll put that out before we leave tomorrow.
1 like to make an early start, so it might be
st if we did a little packing right now.”
She walked briskly from the room; only
th her bedroom door closed behind her did
e grind the heel of her palm savagely against
r fluttering eye. The pain was welcome, but
e very uncontrolledness of the gesture was a
irning. As deliberately as though she were
ing watched, Mrs. Marrable walked to the
ndow that faced the mountains and stood
oking out, a small elderly woman in a black
ess, enjoying the view.
The fields had dimmed, the mountains were
mberly dark except for the peaks, a radiant
se gold in the last of the sunlight. Mrs. Mar-
ble, staring, saw only her companion’s com-
rlable pink face and guileless eyes. A/. Doc-
ring One portion of the pheasant, pretending
spicion over the jellies. Shaking her head in
ror over Miss Tinsley’s supposed drinking
but. Offering her own money for investment—
at had been a trap, and how fortunate that
rs. Marrable had sidestepped it.
So Mrs. Dimmock could not be sure; in
, Mrs. Marrable’s firm refusal of any stock
ansactions must have shaken her somewhat.
it a woman who had played her part so
oroughly would not dismiss her suspicions
sily. Now was the time to remove her, be-
re She could raise a hue and cry; before the
Dlice, to whom she might go, could demand
‘oof of the continuing existence of Miss
nsley and all the others, simply to quiet her.
It still seemed incredible to Mrs. Marrable
lat she could have been so deceived; it was
€ a mocking insult, an open jeer. Her face
It entirely askew, as though her tic had frozen
the midst of a twitch. Careful . . . careful.
ne must be guided by reason and not by
ge; the period of greatest danger, when she
ad been unwarned and unarmed, was past.
There was no longer any doubt about Mrs.
immock—but what had she done on that
etended errand for stockings and tooth-
aste? A telephone call? Almost certainly, but
» whom? There were a very few possibilities:
lia, George, Harriet Crewe.
Mrs. Marrable would have to find out be-
ore she disposed of Mrs. Dimmock.

hile Mrs. Marrable stared thoughtfully at
er ceiling that night, Harriet Crewe slept
adly in the cottage across the road. Twice,
hen tree branches snapped off by the rising
ind struck the roof, she found herself sitting
p in bed, heart pounding, eyes straining at
€ low-set windows. When she realized that
was only the wind, she sank back into the
in sleep of uneasiness.
For the first time in her life, she was fright-
| ed of a dog. At one point, fright had be-
“ome near-panic.

After listening to the six-thirty weather re-
port, she had half expected Mammoth—
James’s christening for the persistent Chloé—
because the dog was obviously nervous in
storms. When the seeking sounds began at
doors and windows she said to James’s plea,
“James, we can’t. If you keep letting a dog in,
it expects to live with you; and besides, if it
wants shelter, it can go in the carport. Mrs.
Marrable doesn’t want it here. Anyway, it has
a home of its own.”

And perhaps, Harriet thought while she got
dinner, that was what bothered her about the
dog: from its bulk, it was fed well and regu-
larly, and yet in any inclement weather it came
through the night to try to claim the cottage.
It showed a disturbing sense of ownership,
benevolent but firm, as though once in com-
mand—tail waving, jaws parted amiably—it
might exclude all other occupants.

She was about to call James to the table
when she heard a clatter from his room and a
breathless, “‘No, Mammoth.” Harriet flung a
tablespoon into the sink and ran in. James
had evidently opened one of the windows to
talk to the dog through the screen. The screen
now lay on the floor, and in the half-dark Har-
riet could see the narrow head and forepaws
pushing into the room.

It gave her an almost atavistic stab of fear.
She pushed against the enormous chest with
all her strength, saying sharply, ‘““No! Down!”
only to feel the huge weight pressing farther
through the window. She said pantingly,
“James, get the screen,” and a second later the
narrow edge of metal did what not all her
force had been able to do. Mammoth thrust
unavailingly against the screen and at last
dropped back into the darkness.

Harriet whipped the window closed and
found that, ridiculously, she was shaking. She
did not even scold James. Instead, she went
all through the cottage to make sure that the
windows were tightly fastened.

Against, of all things, a dog.

Lying awake through the black hours of the
night, Mrs. Marrable realized that her present
situation could not be endured. Mrs. Dim-
mock knew, and it was only a matter of time—
even hours, possibly—before, discarding all
other possibilities, she might manage to get
hold of Juan and question him. Juan could
not relate the planting of the last poplar to the
vanishing of Miss Tinsley, as he never pene-
trated the house and would not know who was
or was not there, but if he were asked he would
certainly say that he dug unusually deep holes
for Mrs. Marrable and no, he did not do the
planting himself.

Mrs. Marrable had thought to lure Mrs.
Dimmock on by a promise to invest her sav-
ings profitably, and thereby give herself a few
days’ grace in which to discover the woman’s
confidant, if there was one, and lay her own
plans. Now she knew that she could not.

Watch Mrs. Dimmock as closely as she
might, she could not possibly close every loop-
hole. She could not guard the telephone every
instant of the day, she could not prevent the
passing of a note, she might listen unaware to
a prearranged signal telegraphed in her pres-
ence. Perhaps more important, she could not
stand this quiet and mortal combat with Mrs.
Dimmock; her eye, which had now begun to
twinge as well as twitch, was proof of that.
After all, I am not a young woman, thought
Mrs. Marrable angrily but practically.

She did not want to sleep, but she was dan-
gerously close to not hearing’ the very soft
sounds down the hall when they came. In-
stantly she sat bolt upright.

In the lull before the wind recommenced its
roar about the house, the sounds became quite
clearly the brush and occasional pat of a hand
seeking its way along a wall. Mrs. Dimmock,
whose night sight was poor, was guiding herself
along the hall in the direction of the kitchen.

Or the telephone?

Mrs. Marrable flung her nightgowned legs
over the edge of her bed, pressured the knob
of her door silently open, and stepped into the
black hall.

Mrs. Dimmock could be going to telephone
only because she had been unsuccessful in her
earlier effort; Mrs. Marrable felt a heady wave
of triumph. She reached an unerring hand to
the kitchen light switch, calling in the same

second, “Mrs. Dimmock? Is that you, Mrs.
Dimmock?”’

The sudden brilliance of the kitchen was
blinding, but Mrs. Marrable, who had been
expecting it, had a slight advantage. Through
narrowed lids she watched her companion
turn and cup a hand over her eyes. Mrs. Dim-
mock said apologetically, “I thought I heard
the telephone, but I must have been dreaming.”

“Obviously,” said Mrs. Marrable in the
cross tone of someone waked uselessly out of
sleep. There was nothing to show the cold,
decided steadying of her pulse. She squinted
at the electric clock, which showed a surprising
twenty minutes after six. “As you’re up,” she
said tartly to Mrs. Dimmock, “would you
mind heating me some milk? I'll never get
back to sleep otherwise.”

Mrs. Marrable had suddenly remembered
the wheelchair, light and nimble, which had
been put away in the hall closet after her re-
covery from an accident two years before.

Under cover of the kitchen sounds and the
helpful wind, she opened the closet door,
whisked the chair out and into her bedroom.
Moving rapidly, unaware of the icy brick floor

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beneath her bare feet, she crossed to her bath-
room door, switched on the light, closed the
door to within an inch. Carefully, so as not to
topple the pile beside the corner fireplace, she
picked up a short thick log and stepped qui-
etly into the closet across from the near side of
the bed.

She heard water rush in the kitchen: neat,
dangerous Mrs. Dimmock was rinsing the
pan. She heard the sharp flick of the kitchen
light switch, and then her companion entered
the bedroom. Glass in her hand, white curls
tousled, voluminous pink flannel nightgown
swaying, Mrs. Dimmock glanced at the bath-
room door and then set the glass down on the
bedside table ——

Mrs. Marrable came out of the closet and
swung the log heavily. In almost the same ges-
ture she caught the toppling woman under the
arms and maneuvered her the few backward
steps to the waiting wheelchair. After a few
seconds of silence broken only by her own
rough breathing, she turned on the bedside
lamp.

Mrs. Marrable felt Mrs. Dimmock’s pulse,
and it was a stubborn wide-spaced stir in the
dangling wrist. But she was beginning to
breathe loudly, almost snoringly.

Mrs. Marrable turned her back and got
dressed. Her mind informed her coldly that
she must also dress Mrs. Dimmock. It was
very distasteful, and something she had never
done before, but in the end she managed it.
Slip, white blouse, dark blue skirt.

Surely she was almost dead? Her color was
bad, so was her breathing. Mrs. Marrable
flung on her coat, opened the door of her

109

bedroom which led out to the patio, and walked
around the house to the Cadillac. The morn-
ing was deep steel gray now instead of black,
and so wild that a branch of cottonwood came
hurtling down only a few feet away from her.
Quietly, not touching the headlights or revving
the motor, Mrs. Marrable drove the car
around to the back of the house. She re-
entered her bedroom, cast a glance at the
motionless Mrs. Dimmock, and stood thinking.

What should Mrs. Dimmock have done?
Got up early (disturbed by the wind), made
herself a cup of coffee, gone outdoors on
some errand... to get the milk? No, that was
left at the door. To leave a note for the mailman?

Miss. Marrable wrote the note, requesting
that all mail be held at the post office until
her return from a trip, and went out and put
it in the mailbox. She made herself a cup of
instant coffee, and washed the cup and saucer
and spoon as neatly as Mrs. Dimmock would
have.

It was now almost eight o’clock, in spite of
the dark wind-torn gray. If she called George,
who was back from El Paso, George could
not call her and find the house empty, or
drive out at an inconvenient point. Mrs.
Marrable lifted the receiver on what she slowly
realized was total emptiness. She had no
telephone; a line was down somewhere.

Mrs. Dimmock could not have called any-
body. For this she had rushed into a barely
conceived plan, for this she had a half-dressed
woman in coma to dispose of. A taste of rage
filled Mrs. Marrable’s throat; it was a full
minute before she could even control herself.
But she must, because the most difficult part
lay ahead.

She hung the pink nightgown neatly on the
hook in Mrs. Dimmock’s bath and took the
woman’s coat and scarf from her closet; those
would wait until the last. Was there anything
else? Pocketbook. Mrs. Marrable found it,
discreet black calf—odd, all her companions
had had black-calf handbags—and searched
it carefully. There was nothing in it that there
shouldn’t have been, and Mrs. Marrable put
it on the bed with the coat and scarf.

She became aware of the steadily rising
wind and the savage ache below her right eye.
It was now almost nine o’clock, but there was
no hurry. Dutiful George would call, and
when he found her line out of order he would
almost certainly send some busybody around
to investigate.

Ten o’clock came, and Harriet Crewe.

Mrs. Marrable answered the door. There
was no question of her not letting Harriet in
on such a day{ dust swirled into their faces
and the wind made it impossible to com-
municate except in a shout. So, for the first
time, Harriet stood in the long vault-ceilinged
living room, shivering in her envelope of cold
air, trying not to stare about her.

“Such a day,” said Mrs. Marrable mildly.
““Not very good for sinus, I’m afraid.’ She
had been holding a pad of cotton against her
right eye.

Harriet said hastily, “I’m sorry to bother
you, but your nephew ——” and explained
George’s anxiety.

““How kind of George,”’ said Mrs. Marrable
perfunctorily. “I had found out about the
telephone, and my laundryman reported it for
me, but it won’t do any harm to have it re-
ported again. You may tell George that we’re
quite all right now. Mrs. Dimmock went out
early this morning—she would go out, al-
though I warned her—and got a nasty blow
from a tree branch. . . . Excuse me.”

She walked rapidly into the inner regions
of the house. Harriet heard the slam of a
refrigerator door, a rattle of ice, a severe,
“But / would prefer that you not get up, Mrs.
Dimmock, at least just yet. Nobody should
know better than you that blows on the head
must be watched. . . . It’s Miss Crewe; George
was worried about the telephone and called
her. Now do rest a few more minutes. My sinus
will do very well,’ said Mrs. Marrable’s voice
with an exasperated kindness, and her foot-
steps proceeded back through the house.

Harriet said as she entered the living room,
“If there’s anything I can do?” and Mrs.
Marrable shook her gray head.

“She’s felt a bit faint for a few minutes, and
I thought she’d be better off resting awhile,

110

Right now,” said Mrs. Marrable,
“‘she’s anxious to get up
Thank you again, Miss

that’s all.
smiling a trifle wryly,
so that I can lie down.
Crewe.”’

She watched Harriet out into the whirl of
wind, down the driveway, along the road and
into the cottage. Then she locked the front
and back doors; she would now operate from
the door in her bedroom. The small amount of
blood on Mrs. Dimmock’s white head had un-
doubtedly dried, but she took the plastic
covering from a freshly cleaned dress and
arranged it carefully on the car’s front seat.

The providential wheelchair was easy to
handle; its rubber tires left no marks on the
brick of the patio or on the few yards of iron-
hard earth to where the car waited, its door
open. Mrs. Dimmock did not notice the icily
blasting wind, but Mrs. Marrable found it an
active enemy, even with the woman propped
against the side of the car, when she had to
struggle with the coat.

Mrs. Dimmock said something.

It was not merely a blur, a reaction to the
cold and to being moved, nor was it a moan or
protest of any kind. Mrs. Marrable stared into
the ashy face—what tenacity the woman had,
even dying!—and said wheedlingly, “‘What
is it?”

Out of some almost unendurable effort,
Mrs. Dimmock muttered, ‘“Told. H——”

A last breath from her lungs; or H for Har-
riet? The single aspirant came again like a
ghastly stutter, and Mrs. Marrable put her
face close to Mrs. Dimmock’s. “Harriet?” she
said coaxingly, and the white head seemed to
dip forward a little. Mrs. Marrable maneu-
vered the unresisting body into the front of
the car and closed the door. There was no
witness at all, not even a crow.

Mrs. Marrable returned the wheelchair to
the hall closet. Back again in her room, she
went to the closet where her seldom-worn
evening clothes were kept.

She had realized three years ago, in a cool
and businesslike way, that at some point it
might become necessary for her to flee. There-
fore the bank account in the name of Mrs.
James Wilson, and the white wig which she
now unpinned from inside a black crepe dress.

Ironically, she had bought the wig long
before she had ever seen Mrs. Dimmock. It
was short and fluffy, the greatest possible
alteration from her own dark gray hair, and
with it on she seemed to become an entirely
different woman. With a last glance around
her, she took an empty nose-drop bottle
from her bathroom cabinet, locked the bed-
room door, and hurried to the car.

She remembered to sit as Mrs. Dimmock
sat, crouched a little forward, hands high on
the wheel. She drove coolly past the cottage.
Perhaps half a mile beyond she neared a man
leading a palomino. Deliberately she veered
toward him, saw the horse fling up its head
and sidestep, swung exaggeratedly to the far
side of the road so that the wheels bit gravel.
In the rearview mirror she saw that the man
had turned to stare furiously after her.

A dirt turnoff, perhaps twenty-five yards
from the paved turnoff, led to the main drain.
It was the kind of mistake a slightly concussed
woman might make while driving through
wind-driven dust, and Mrs. Marrable swung
boldly into it.

L. was, thought Mrs. Marrable with genuine
regret, a pity about the car.

A number of people might have seen the
small wind-bent kerchiefed figure that pres-
ently crossed the fields. At a glance it would
have seemed a cleaning woman _ hurrying
home after a morning’s work. There was
certainly nothing to connect it with erect and
deliberate Mrs. Marrable, who never wore
anything but a hat on her head and always
carried her silver-headed cane.

She entered the house by her bedroom door.
The battle with the wind had exhausted her,
but before she hung up the black coat, her
oldest and shabbiest, she took the plastic from
the pocket, smoothed it out on her bed and
examined it. Apart from the rumpling, there

was not a mark on n fact, it could very
well go back where had been, over her
newly cleaned dark blue silk. It did.

Almost stumbling in her weariness, Mrs.
Marrable swallowed two sleeping pills and

lay down on her bed. How silent the house
was, silent and safe.

Harriet kept a pifion fire going all morning.
Quite apart from its cheerful look, faintly
spicy scent and magically preoccupying effect
on James, it spread a necessary warmth; the
cottage which had seemed so snug was unable
to hold out the wind. Sharp little slices of it
came in around window frames and under
doors, dissipating the comfort of the valiantly
simmering wall heaters. Presently, although
it meant shutting out the day completely,
Harriet drew the curtains at both living-room
windows.

Normally she liked an occasional display
of bad weather, but this morning she found
herself both nervous and depressed. It was
the kind of feeling she associated with some
dreaded task or appointment, but today there
was no such thing. Certainly it was not con-
cern over Mrs. Dimmock, who had driven
off earlier in the black Cadillac; although the
roads were wild with tumbleweed and the
visibility poor, the woman was competence
itself. Harriet wondered idly that she had left
her employer alone in such an obvious state
of discomfort, and then remembered that
something had been said about a prescription
for sinus.

Was that it—a feeling of being over-
shadowed by the two women across the road,
almost of responsibility for a situation which
was certainly not of her making? Harriet pos-
sessed knowledge which Mrs. Marrable did
not; on the other hand, Mrs. Marrable had
been introduced to Hugh Darrah in her own
house. (But in what guise, under what pre-
text? How easy for a man like Hugh Darrah
to make a friend of Julia if expedience required
it, and be presented as such.)

Like someone in a joke, Harriet had argued
herself into a state of anger at Mrs. Marrable
for having consented to rent the cottage at
all when her doorbell rang. It was startling to

open the door on a whirl of wind and Hugh
Darrah.

Something of what Harriet had been think-
ing must have left traces on her face, because
after his rapid glance at her and an explosive
comment on the storm Darrah was very
formal indeed. He hated to bother Harriet,
but he had talked to Julia Marrable on the
phone earlier and both she and George were
concerned about their aunt’s continuing lack
of telephone service. He had volunteered to
drive over and see if anyone was working on
it, and had found no repair truck and no one
at home. He assumed that as far as Harriet
knew everything was all right?

Harriet felt a flash of irritation; from this,
and from George’s earlier call, there was a
very faint implication that if everything should
turn out to be not all right the blame would
fall upon her. She said a little crisply, ““?'m
afraid I have no idea, but they know my phone
is working, and I’m only across the road.”

Darrah’s instincts were at war with his
formality; he walked absentmindedly across
the room and stood before the fire, holding
his hands behind him to the blaze. James, on
the hearth, withdrew into himself as neatly as
a caterpillar. Darrah said mildly but question-
ingly, “It’s not much of a day for the road. I
trust Mrs. Marrable is a good driver?”

“It was Mrs. Dimmock.” The correction
was automatic, but Harriet felt that she had
been trapped into it. ““You’d know about that,
wouldn’t you, as she’s your godmother?”

Darrah’s glance remained steady, but Har-
riet, across the room, almost flinched from
his sharp surprising anger. He controlled it
instantly. “Godmother, nurse, and now ex-
tremely good friend. And she’s an excellent
driver. Mrs. Marrable is in good hands.”

“Mrs. Marrable isn’t well; she’s lying
down,” said Harriet. Angry herself a moment
ago, she was now propitiating for no very
good reason. “I do seem to have a lot of in-
formation, don’t I? It’s only because George

“SHOW US HOW
TO BE
BEAUTIFUL”

The young American woman, as our coast-
to-coast survey shows, envisions two kinds of
beauty for herself. One is for daytime—an
easy-to-care-for, natural beauty. The other
is for evening—more glamorous and allur-
ing. Yet many women are unsure of their
beauty techniques, afraid of ‘‘overdoing”
their makeup. Here are the important ques-
tions they ask:’

‘““Everyone seems to be wearing eye makeup
now. Where do I start ?”

There is a lot of fun, flattery and fashion
in eye makeup. The color of your lashes
determines the color of mascara you use. If
lashes are blond, brown or red, wear brown
mascara. If very dark brown or black, use
black. Are your eyes blue or green? An ex-
citing way to intensify their color is to use,
in addition to the basic mascara color, a
touch of matching blue or green. Apply it
only to the tips of lashes already coated
evenly with brown or black. For evening
you'll want eye shadow, which comes in
cream, stick or powder form. The brown-eyed
can wear almost any shade—turquoise, green,
or a color to match a costume. Brown eye
shadow, used sparingly, is becoming too.
Blue eyes and green eyes become bluer and
greener under matching eye shadow. Apply
shadow to the center of the eyelid, then with
your finger blend it carefully up and out.
Dust lightly with powder for staying power.
Eye liner takes a little more practice, but
there’s a trick to it, and with experience
you'll find it as easy as lipstick. Using the
liquid or pencil-type liner, hold the eyelid
taut and draw a thin line as close to the base
of the lashes as possible. At the eye’s outer
corner slightly extend the line up and out.
Use black liner with black or very dark

lashes, brown with lighter hair coloring.
Above these beautiful eyes there should be
prettily arched eyebrows, plucked neatly to
their natural line and gently accented with
pencil. If thick and low over your eyes, thin
the lower edge.

“To look really glamorous at night, should I
use a different makeup shade ?”

If you want an ethereal look, use a founda-
tion and powder a fraction lighter than your
daytime shade—but just a fraction. Your
basic makeup colors for foundation and
powder should match your own skin tones as
closely as possible. If you want to glow. usea
very sparing film of rouge on your face over
foundation, then powder lightly to just the
tone you want. (We learned this from a movie
star.)

“I’m afraid to dye my hair, yet it’s such a drab
color. What can I do?”

Hair tinting is very much the fashion
today. With one of the temporary or semi-
permanent rinses you can add wonderful
highlights and rich tones. Usually the shade
nearest your natural color works the best.
Cover gray hair witha semipermanent rinse or
use the permanent colors. Some women who
wish to be dramatic change their hair color
as the seasons change. To be recommended
to those whose husbands find it becoming!

**What can I do about dry skin?”

Use a moisturizer daily. Spread a thin
film over neck and face area before applying
foundation and powder. One young woman
we know uses rich cream onelbows, arms and
legs belowthe kneeafter every bath. Notalways
possible timewise, but a good mark to aim at.
Heated houses, frequent bathscandrytheskin.

LADIES’ HOME JOURN)

called me and asked me to go over and che
up.”

She hesitated over telling Darrah that
Dimmock had been struck by a tree bran
and decided not to: for one thing, it wou
sound gossipy; for another, the woman cou
not have been really hurt or she would pr
have been driving the heavy black Cadillg
And certainly Mrs. Marrable, in her d
thorny fashion, had been most solicitous.

James said unexpectedly from the heart
“Mrs. Dimmock’s not such a good drive
and it was as astonishing as if one of the bri
had spoken.

Dae gave him a measuring and uncord
look. ““What do you mean by that?”
Harriet knew, dismayedly. Gratuitous

tility from James, who basked happily i
company of adults, was the unvarying sign
for an asthma attack; feeling his chest tighte
and his lungs begin to labor, he was willit
to attack anyone in sight. She said casua ‘
“Time to lie down, James,’ and James s
angrily, “I am lying down,” but Darrah t
understood. He smiled at James.

At the door he said quietly to Harrie
“Anything I can get?” and she shook ht
head.

“Tt’s the wind. It'll pass.”

He did not say, “Poor kid,”’ or any of #
other commiserating, headshaking things Ha
riet had learned to dread. He said briskl
‘““He’s tough, hell make it,’ and _perhaj
because it was an odd but true adjective
apply to spidery, conservative James, Ha
felt her eyes fill with ridiculous and bad
timed tears.

She said steadily enough, ““He’s been
until now,” and Darrah gave her an une
pectedly long, gentle look. |

“You've had it all, haven’t you?” he saij
“Here, and’”—he nodded obliquely in th
direction of Mrs. Marrable’s house—*‘there

Before Harriet could reply to that, or evi
wonder at it, he had whipped a card out
his pocket and was writing a telephone numb
on it. “If you get hung up about James, ¢
anything else, I’m here. Maybe ten minut
away.” 1

He had to wrench the door open agains
wind, and then wrench it shut. There, Ha
thought bemusedly, went the spy, the are
plotter, the enemy. It was a pity that, Jul
notwithstanding, gentleness and an enorme
comprehension emanated from him. He cot
slip around a million doors, and still not
anything vicious. She felt, in a way, bere
of her adversary. Like anger, he had shore
her up; like a kind word spoken to stress, |
had undermined her.

She wished that he had not said “or an
thing else,’ because what could there be
She tucked the card behind an oval mirro

At shortly before two o’clock, when
wind was beginning to ebb, a telephone
pairman replaced Mrs. Marrable’s brane
snapped line. In order to test the phone af
report in, he-used the doorbell and then hi
knuckles, but woke no response. A few nif
utes later he knocked at the door of the cotta
across the road.

Harriet said, ““Of course. Right here,”
showed him the telephone. When he had
she stood frowning at the fire. Odd, sure
that Mrs. Dimmock hadn’t returned? Odd
still that Mrs. Marrable did not answer h¢
door, sinus or no sinus; for all she knew, t
summons might have been Mrs. Dimmoch
locked out without her key.

Harriet was faintly cheered by the suddt
realization that Hugh Darrah could not
very worried about his godmother in spi
of the storm; if he were, he would certa
have called long before this to ask if she cr
back. But Mrs. Marrable, whom George a
Julia treated like the very best glass
Gloomily, at a quarter of three, Harriet calle
George.

George said, ““I’ll—let me see, I'll drive ot
right away. I think perhaps I'd better stop é
the house for Julia, just in case ——”

Surely that was not a note of solemn jubilé
tion in George’s voice?

Julia was evidently not at home, becaus
when the long blue car arrived a scant ha

CONTINUED ON PAGE 11

112
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 110
hour later George was alone. He looked pale
and strained, and said to Harriet, ““You don’t
mind coming over with me?”

Harriet minded very much. “I don’t think
your aunt 7.

“If something has happened,”’ interrupted
George ponderously, “she might want a

woman with her.”

It seemed highly unlikely to Harriet—Mrs.
Marrable looked like the last person in the
world to want alien hands on her buttons or
shoelaces—but in spite of his ramrod de-
meanor there was something almost beseech-

PHOTOGRAPHS BY FRANCESCO SCAVULLO. SUIT BY JEAN

By BET HART

What’s the ideal wardrobe? Barbara J. knows it’s one made up
of clothes to depend on and love; clothes with fashion of the

moment, but that will go on with the greatest of ease for sev-

eral seasons t

plans her spring wardrobe, then makes her first investment.

This (the first one of three for a wardrobe complete) is an all-

important step. Not a hasty *

day, never wear itagain,”’ theinvestment is a carefully thought

out one with a future in view. Barbara J.’s choice, a turquoise

wool suit, starts her on her way

MERSEL

» come. With these as prerequisites, Barbara J.

“buy it for a special occasion to-

to wardrobe perfections.

ing about George. James was asleep. Harriet
said, “‘I’ll get my coat,’ and seconds later was
out in the cold gray afternoon.

George rang Mrs. Marrable’s doorbell.
The silence inside was everything Harriet had
dreaded—and then all at once it wasn’t silence
but an odd shuffling sound. The door whisked
inward without warning, and there stood
Mrs. Marrable, obviously roused from sleep
and not grateful for it.

George said, “Aunt Elsa! We were wor-
ried—are you all right?”

“T was until I was awakened,” said Mrs.
Marrable pettishly. ““Really, Mrs. Dimmock
ought not to go off and leave me like this when

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Cardigan neckline is perfect for scarves.

For an easy, casual look Barbara J.

é
I do manage to get a little relief. It must be
almost lunchtime, and she seems to have
made no ——”

Something, perhaps the total silence of the
house, seemed to penetrate then. She said
sharply, ““What time is it?”

“Almost three-thirty,” said George in an
apologetic tone.

“Three-thirty!”> Mrs. Marrable sat down
abruptly and passed a confused hand over her
forehead; even in the dim room her rings
flashed. ““Then where is Mrs. Dimmock?”

Her first reaction was indignation: “I told
her quite distinctly that she was not to go out.

First investment, turquoise suit, costs $17.95. Skirt is slim,
jacket cropped to just below waistline level. Today, Barbara J.

accessorizes with beige—knows black patent would be equally

wears new silk shirt in tur-

yess

Barbara

choice: a flowered chiffon in watercolor blues, $3.00.

wears the jacket

open, adds a white blouse, a pin and pearls.

LADIES’ HOME JOURM

She wanted to drive into the village te n
something for my sinus, and she seemed cy »
pletely recovered 2 ..

“Recovered from what?” inquired Ged,
It was a measure of the peculiar strain in
that he had interrupted Mrs. Marrable.

Severely, she recounted her compani
accident with the tree branch. “But I told)
it was better to be on the safe side. To pl
her I took two pills she gave me, and it sé
to me that they must have been very str
indeed, because I fell asleep almost at one
in fact, I barely heard the doorbell just r
It appears,’ said Mrs. Marrable in a cold
level voice, “that she was simply creating
opportunity to leave the house. I car
understand it.”

Harriet thought she understood it veryiy
carefully—because in spite of everything
was reluctant to involve Hugh Darrah?—
did not meet Mrs. Marrable’s eye.

George said, ““You don’t think that perf
you ought to take a look around, Aunt E
To see if anything is . . . missing?”

Mrs. Marrable looked startled. She
with conviction, ““Mrs. Dimmock is nc
thief, George.”

“Oh, of course. Fine woman,” said Geo
“But as you say, she wasn’t herself.
instance, she wouldn’t normally have gi
you such strong sleeping stuff, would sh

“Well,” said Mrs. Marrable slowly, ~
quite sure you’re wrong, but still ——”

Se left the room; it was only a minut
two before she returned. “‘As I thought,
only thing missing is the prescription for
sinus. Call the drugstore, George, and se
she’s been there.”

Mrs. Dimmock had not.

Harriet, who had hardly spoken since
arrival, said something which did not seen
have occurred to either of them. “You dé
suppose that with all that wind and dust, ;
being slightly dizzy, she might have take
wrong turning and gone off the road so}
where?”

Mrs. Marrable said frowningly, “But tk
are houses, people about uy

“Not on the road to the drain,” s
Harriet. She made it very quiet and con\
sational, because Mrs. Marrable looked al
once as though she had received a phys:
blow. ‘‘Fishermen go there sometimes, I thi
but it’s usually deserted. It would be
weather like this.”

Mrs. Marrable closed her eyes and opel
them again on Harriet’s face. “‘How clever
you to think of it,”’ she said slowly. “Geot
I think you had better call the police fi,
away.”

But George did not call immediately,
cause the doorbell rang. Mrs. Marra
jumped nimbly to her feet. ““Here she is!”
said triumphantly, and went to the door.

Hugh Darrah stood against the near-da
and even before he said a word it was cl
that he was not a bearer of good tidings.
somehow unfamiliar gaze did not seem to
anyone in the room but Mrs. Marrable. “!
afraid I’ve come with bad news a

He had heard it, he said, in the village.
boy who had been sternly forbidden ©
vicinity of the drain had nevertheless skipf
school to go there. And there in the watei
gestures began—was this big black car an
woman half in and half out of the open do
She was a white-haired woman, and she ¥
dead. :

Darrah had driven to the spot the boy*
scribed. The sheriff’s car and police ambular
had left, but a deputy was supervising‘t
removal of the Cadillac from the water. 4
cording to him, the contents of the wo
purse identified her as Mrs. Alice Dimmot

Harriet watched Darrah, flinching for hi!
Darrah watched Mrs. Marrable, who sat ve
still in her chair, meeting the shock withj
steadiness undone by the rigidly clench
hands in her lap. She seemed to be waiting 1}
something, perhaps only power over }
voice. It was totally unlike itself when it canj}
frightened, almost supplicating. “George,
you would get me some brandy ——”

No one spoke until George came back Wij}
a glass that tended to tremble in his hand. Mf
Marrable drank the brandy with her ey}
closed, as though to listen the more acutt

— RUARY, 1962

me inward function. It seemed entirely

ble that with no dramatics at all her heart
it suddenly stop beating.

| rrah said quietly when she had set down
empty glass, “I’m sorry. Maybe I should

left this to the sheriff’s office, but I
qzht ——”

’s quite all right.” Mrs. Marrable even
\ him a small ghastly smile. “It’s just—I
H seem to take it in. We were going on a
-omorrow, everything is packed. When
« all happen? Does anyone know?”
Trrah shook his head. “The boy ap-

itly went to the drain after his lunch
7 but of course it might have been hours
fe that. Do you know when she left the

27”?

rriet, speaking for the first time since
surrival, said that Mrs. Dimmock had
in by the cottage at about ten-thirty.

-s. Marrable rubbed her eyes in a be-
red way. “‘I still don’t quite ———- She
10 relatives, as far as I know. George, call
eheriff’s office and tell them that I will
icare of . . . everything.”
orge rose obediently. Hugh Darrah
ued his hands and said carefully, “I sup-
> there’ll be an inquest.”

: should imagine so, yes,” said Mrs.
fable. “Poor Mrs. Dimmock. But of
he the law must be complied with. Do call,

Roa 9?
e ge.
ae

pat was it that Hugh Darrah had called
Dimmock? ‘‘Nurse, godmother, and
y extremely good friend.”’ And there he
tallowing funeral arrangements to be
yhed for by a stranger. Harriet stood up,
i:d and incredulous, and said to no one, “I
L get back to James.”
ames knows you're here,”

said Darrah

Ves, but still ——”

Vait,” said George surprisingly, and
c>d down at Mrs. Marrable. “Aunt Elsa,
won't stay here tonight alone, will you?

ee back with me; I know Julia would

am afraid,’ said Mrs. Marrable with a
¥| return of her imperious manner, “that
at the moment I do not feel up to being
led about, George.’ She lifted her gaze
iy ingly to Harriet’s face. “I won't feel that
lone,” said Mrs. Marrable gently. “Miss
We is just across the road.”

‘ng after they had left, Mrs. Marrable
d at the face of Harriet Crewe in her
). Polite—and secret, the clear gaze drop-
‘instantly away when Mrs. Marrable said,
nnot understand it.’’ The innocent voice
hich she had suggested the drain, the
sly gaze she had directed at Mrs. Marrable.
) had she said nothing—because she
at quite sure of murder in this case, in
y of what Mrs. Dimmock had told her? Or
Huse she was biding her time?
that case, she must not be allowed much
1 to bide.

sputy Armijo called on Mrs. Marrable
routine questions the next day. The
\ediate cause of Mrs. Dimmock’s death
i been drowning, but the autopsy had
en internal bleeding from a prior head
Eid. Had Mrs. Marrable any information
erning that?
ts. Marrable explained. “I can’t think
she went out in such a wind—oh, the note
‘he mailman, and I must remove that
but she came in quite dizzy, and said
fa branch had struck her. Of course I in-
/ that’she lie down with some cracked ice
. owel.””

s. Marrable touched her pouched right
#1 don’t know whether you suffer from
Ds, officer, but I was dreadfully ill with it
“morning. I shouldn’t have mentioned it

rs. Dimmock in her state, but she kept in-

ig that she was quite all right and wanted
down to the drugstore to have a pre-
@ition of mine refilled.”
7 ‘mijo nodded. “We found the bottle in her
ite,” he'told her. He consulted notes. “Then
eemed her usual sélf when she went out ?”’
(€sked.
have no idea, as I didn’t see her go out.
Aled, I had asked her not to,” said Mrs.

Marrable, and frowned. “I did think it odd
that she gave me two pills instead of one, but
I trusted her so ——” She paused, gazing
down the arched and glimmering room. “It’s
hard to ask, officer, but—did she suffer?”

Armijo pocketed his notes with finality. “I
don’t think so. In her state—she got another
blow from the steering wheel when the car
went in—she couldn’t have felt much. The
doctor says people react differently to con-
cussion, but it’s a wonder she got as far as she
did.”

Mrs. Marrable gave him a very sincere
gaze. “Mrs. Dimmock was an _ extremely

strong woman,” she said.

Harriet, still caught in a queer depression,
fell back on an old remedy: she took James to
the zoo. When they got back Hugh Darrah’s
car was in the drive, and Darrah himself was
emerging from around the back of the cot-
tage.

He had stopped by, he said, and, finding no
one home, had been about to leave when he
smelled smoke from inside. “It’s O.K.,’’ he
said hastily at Harriet’s expression. ““Just your
fireplace—the damper was closed. Luckily,
your back door wasn’t locked.”

‘But the fire was out.”

“Not quite,” said Darrah, apologetic but
firm. “It couldn’t have done any damage any-

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RANG

113

way, except you'd have found the place full of
smoke.”’ He smiled briefly. ““I hope you don’t
mind my bursting in, but I thought the
worst.”

Harriet said automatically, ““Of course not,
I’m very grateful.” but she felt a little bewil-
dered. “James, did you touch the damper?’’
she asked.

“No,” said James, but he would have said
that in any case and he was an inveterate tink-
erer; no function of a house escaped his
attention.

Should she, Harriet wondered uncertainly,
ask Darrah in? He had stopped by (why?) and
he had gone out of his way to be of service;

SIO EMM Mr SOMME:

MEDILL AO Ve

Mrs. Karen Parsons, recent
Boeing jet passenger, says...

Just
one bottle—

in 2,400 miles!”

““Last November,”’ says
Mrs. Parsons, “my little
daughter, Kim, and I
traveled cross-country by
Boeing jetliner. [t took us
just over four hours to cover
2,400 miles. I never had to
change Kim, and I gave her
just one bottle. Actually,
our Boeing flight was so
smooth and quiet she slept
almost all the way. That
gave me the chance to enjoy
the most thrilling travel
experience of my life...a
trip by Boeing jetliner.”

114

LADIES’ HOME JOU

on the other hand, his reaction to Mrs. Dim- takably hopeful. Was he worried about his affair There was still a faint, bitter smell of smoke in was a notoriously misleading
mock’s death was bafflingly careless. Pink- with Julia, thinking that Harriet might saysome-_ the cottage. James had not been in his room for and the newspapers were still ¢)
cheeked from the cold, hair shining darkly inthe thing to George? Containedly savage, Harriet more than a minute before he came stalking out. cling highway fatalities attributd
sun, Harriet said a little stiffly, “Well, thank you dug for her key. “Fairly soon; it all depends on ‘“Who’s been in my room?” the storm. Mrs. Dimmock bi
again "? my brother. James?” “Nobody,” said Harriet. another statistic.

‘All the Darrahs were volunteer firemen,” “But your lease here is up in about a week, ““Oh yes they have. Come and see.” With the bottle recovered fro
said Darrah, laughing at her from behind a per- isn’t it?” sodden black-calf bag, Mrs. Ma
fectly formal face and voice. “I suppose you'll be “Unless Mrs. Marrable cares to renew it. But There was no difficulty in arriving ata decision prudently had her nose-drop
leaving soon?” there must be apartments,” said Harriet with a_ in the case of Mrs. Alice Dimmock. Her erratic scription refilled and was the

In a twinkling his manner had changed. He
was not amused or even casual, he was unmis-

cool and furious smile, “‘and I might settle down
here for quite a while. It’s such a lovely climate.”

This diaper comes out of the wash already folded.

driving had already been reported by the indig-
nant palomino owner, the turnoff to the drain

able to attend the simple funera
bore her bereavement well—sh
yet to cry at a funeral—but he
was solemn and curiously old
when George drove her back ¢
house she had a small glass of w
and water. George had a large
over which he observed perf
rily, “Poor woman—dreadfulgtl

“These roads are Sa
Mrs. Marrable. “How was t)
Paso trip, George?”

George swallowed part of his
the wrong way. Scarlet and ¢
eyed, he said too heartily, “Oh,

“Something is wrong,” obs
Mrs. Marrable pleasantly. “W
it, George? You aren’t having
ble with Julia, are you?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” G
looked genuinely horrified. “It”
the fact is that one of my ¢
friends—wonderful fellow—is
very bad jam.”’ A fine perspil
had broken out on his forehear
progress of which Mrs. Mai
watched with fascination. “F
well, it’s too complicated to go
but he’s got to dig up twent
thousand dollarsrightaway.” Ge
fingers clenched whiteningly, a
ently without his knowing it. “IT
to help him out, but I’m a bit
extended myself and it just oce
to me that maybe ——”

Mss. Marrable’s world spun i
her; she could only stare at the ¥
est of ironies. They had both
playing the same game, she o
side, George and Julia on t
They were broke, or nearly, an
expensive presents, the air of ¥
and position had had only one
pose: to woo a rich old aunt
leaving them everything. And t
Paso trip, of course, had been -
desperate effort to raise money }}
probably for immediate payme
pressing creditors.

Mrs. Marrable could almost’
leaped at George in her passior
the years of iron control held he
frowning glance. Instinct warne)
that the situation could be save
at least partially retrieved, if she’
to her own position—and she
badly underestimated George.

She said in her brisk dry voi
advise you to steer clear of your fi
in the future, but if it’s importa
you I would be willing to advan
thousand. Certainly no more.”

“He’d be very grateful,”
George, taking out his handkere
“Very grateful, and of course ¥
get it back.”

“T should hope so,” said Mrs.
rable, and went to her desk:
thousand—over a third of wha
owned. But she was sure thaj
would get her money back,
George had to borrow it somey
else, and then she would be fi

(But suppose Harriet Crewe
to George with the tale Mrs.
mock had told her? George v
not ask for money then, he ¥
demand it.)

It always came back to Hi
Crewe—and Mrs. Marrable reé
suddenly why the girl was kee
silent. She was afraid for hersel)

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James; she was putting in her
week at the cottage as thougl
suspected nothing, and then, °
she was a safe distance away
would go to the police.

Or so she thought.

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BRUARY, 1962

[he almost-certainty that Hugh Darrah
{ entered the cottage for the purpose of
rching James’s room—he must have poked
orously at the ash-covered remains of the
, and closed the damper himself to provide
ne convenient smoke—turned Harriet cold
1 definite.
she did not know what was going on, nor
ihe moment did she care, but the few facts
» had were not pleasant. Hugh Darrah and
;S. Dimmock had been in some form of col-
ion, and now Mrs. Dimmock was dead.
ym a composed and sturdy autocrat, Mrs.
‘rrable had altered into a harsh, sallow,
<ing shell—and Hugh Darrah wanted pos-
sion of the cottage just across from her, or
something in it. Why else search James’s
m, disarranging the books James hoarded
ously but never read; why else urge Har-
so gratuitously out? It could not be only
interest in Julia, because under Mrs. Mar-
le’s eye he would have less freedom than
wwhere else.
ery well, Harriet would leave. She would
| her brother as soon as the time difference
}wed him to be home. Hugh Darrah could
le the cottage. He could, thought Harriet
calmly, have the whole Southwest.
But what had he wanted in James’s room?)
The afternoon was interminable. Harriet
indoned a book, lost four games of soli-
e before she discovered that for some rea-
| of his own James had pocketed the ace of
ides, and finally went into her room to com-
nee the arduous job of packing all but the

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nediate necessities. She was interrupted by
‘telephone, and it was Mrs. Marrable, with
ymehow surprising invitation: would Har-
fiicome over at six and join her for a cock-
2? And James, of course, for whom hot
olate would perhaps be strong enough?
ler voice had lost its imperious quality; she
nded lonely and old, shaken by the pros-
| of another solitary evening. But then it
/not, Harriet reflected, a house in which
‘could care to live alone; its very size and
mnity would mock at a single occupant.
| said they would like it very much, and
ig up. An instant later, almost guiltily, she
‘ed up the receiver and placed a long-
‘Tiance call to her brother’s home in Con-
‘icut. y
he circuits were busy, the operator re-
red* should she keep trying? Harriet
‘ iced at the windows, beginning to blue,
1 said she would put the call in later. It
‘Wick her suddenly that James had been sin-
“Hirly quiet for the last fifteen or twenty min-
‘ I and she said inquiringly to the cottage
lirge, “James?”
umes wasn’t there.
jarriet was seized by a formless panic. She
, James?” and then ‘“‘James!’’ but her
e echoed foolishly back at her. He was
Chere in the cottage. Her heart had begun
d;0 irregular with presentiment when the
& door opened and he marched in. His ex-
sion presaged no good for anybody; his
Mle bearing had the militance and precision

: i which he was accustomed to deliver bad

! le said to Harriet with a dark satisfaction,
smebody’s been living in the mud house.”
arriet had said with the exasperation of
ef, “James, I told you not to ——” before
n registered. The mud house, the ruined old
‘Me stables in the next field. She said auto-

“Mically, ““Nonsense,”’ and James bristled.
They have so. There’s cigarette butts and
he cores and a blanket ——”

the end, Harriet went with him.

mebody had certainly been living here;
®ebody still was. On a ledge in one of the

abandoned stalls was a nearly full package of
cigarettes with matches laid neatly on top, and
no one merely seeking refuge for the night
would have left those—nor would he have left
the blanket neatly rolled against one wall.
Whoever it was intended to come back—to
watch the cottage? To enter it?

Harriet shivered suddenly, although she
stood in a lance of mote-filled sun. The ridicu-
lous notion seized her that at any moment she
might turn to find the doorway blocked, and
she said with unusual sharpness, “‘Let’s
James,” and was outside again with a feeling
of narrow escape.

James said importantly, “Are you going to
tell Mrs. Marrable?” and Harriet pulled her
distracted thoughts back.

“I don’t know . . . yes. In the meantime,
don’t go there again, James.”

Mrs. Marrable thought as she replaced the
receiver that she had disarmed the girl—for
the time being at least. Harriet Crewe would
not accept hospitality from a woman upon
whom she had already informed. Meanwhile,
she would proceed with the rest of her prepa-
rations.

She had been hoarding sleeping pills and
other drugs for three years—some from the
accident to her hip, some from an attack of
shingles, others from various companions ap-
proaching a difficult age. After a careful in-
spection she selected four capsules for Harriet
and two for James. She took the precaution of
tasting the powder she extracted; it was not
appetizing, certainly, but when she had added
a sprinkle of confectioners’ sugar the bitter
medicinal bite was cut. x

“James,” said Harriet very casually at seven
o’clock, “finish your chocolate; we must be
going.”

Mrs. Marrable sprang instantly to her feet.
“Oh, you mustn’t, it’s early.” She picked up
Harriet’s old-fashioned glass and extended
her hand. ““May I have your cup, James?”

James, who had been sipping manfully at
his hot chocolate, downed the rest of it with a
resolution that made Harriet’s lips twitch. It
had evidently been no better than her own
cocktail. She said hastily, “Just a very little for
us both, please—it really is late,” and, when
Mrs. Marrable had left the room, met James’s
appalled eye with a warning shake of her head.

It was indeed difficult to relate this Mrs
Marrable to the tart, energetic woman Harriet
had first seen marching dauntlessly along the
road. It was not only her somehow shocking
appearance—the careless smear of powder on
the twitching yellow skin under one eye, the
indefinable look of an inner crumbling—she
seemed like someone waked from nightmare,
talking eagerly and gratefully about nothing,
the dry authoritative voice become almost a
babble.

She had obviously been fonder of Mrs.
Dimmock than anyone knew, and she must be
pitifully lonely; her gaze clung hungrily to
Harriet’s face. Harriet felt disturbed and a lit-
tle embarrassed under such rapt attention; if it
had been anyone but Mrs. Marrable she
would have thought her slightly drunk.

But shock and grief had countless aspects,
and so, Harriet discovered, did unease. She
began to yawn uncontrollably, not the small
yawns of boredom but deep engulfing yawns
that, inevitably, infected James. They must,
she thought, have looked a sprightly pair of
guests when Mrs. Marrable came in with a
tray on which, dismayingly, the glasses and
James’s cup were full.

Harriet’s old-fashioned was crammed as be-
fore with flotsam and jetsam, and as before it
had a lurkingly unpleasant taste. Could Mrs.
Marrable possibly have used grapefruit rind
(somewhat spoiled), or pimiento instead of
maraschino ? She took a second polite sip, and
sent a signaling glance at James.

“We've had an awfully nice time, Mrs.
Marrable, but we really must be on our way
now.”

“But you must finish your drinks,” said
Mrs. Marrable, almost pleadingly, glancing
from face to face. ““Are they terrible? I’m
afraid I’m a very inexperienced bartender. Let
me ——’’ She started to rise.

Better the devil you know than the devil you
don't know, reflected Harriet rapidly; what

unearthly mixture might she produce next?
She said in haste, ““Oh no, it’s very good,” and
then there was nothing to do but finish it.

At last she was free to rise and explain, with
some difficulty in this atmosphere, that she
would be vacating the cottage ahead of time.

“Oh?” said Mrs. Marrable, putting a hand
to her active and powdery eye. For a discon-
certing second she seemed to be peeping at
Harriet around it. “Has something come up?”

How explain the mushrooming unease—
more than unease that she had come to con-
nect with the cottage and everybody around
it? The feeling that there was something very
wrong just out of sight, the ruthlessly patient

dog that kept demanding entry, all the things
that were as premonitory of ugliness as chills
and fever were of a cold? “No, hi ought to
be getting back East, that’s all. James?

James came sluggishly, although earlier he
had looked as though he would leave on wings.

“Oh—I think you ought to know, Mrs.
Marrable, that there’s someone staying in the
old stables.”

Harriet was braced for an angry reaction
from Mrs. Marrable, who had a ferociously
strong sense of property and other people’s
duties concerning it, but for a horrifying in-
stant the dry lips seemed about to open on a
burst of laughter.

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116

Perhaps it was only a grimace of pain, con-
trolled at once. “Is there?’ said Mrs. Mar-
rable.

She did not quite close the door after Har-
riet and James. On the cold still air she lis-
tened to the click of high heels along the road,
the girl’s voice saying, ““Come on, James... .
Tired? So am I,” and then the opening and
closing of the cottage door.

When she had listened to the silence for
several minutes Mrs. Marrable went to the
sink and washed Harriet Crewe’s old-fash-
ioned glass and the cup James had used. She
changed into her crepe-soled gardening shoes,
dropped her own set of cottage keys into her
sweater pocket along with two packages of
matches, and let herself out into the night. She
did not bother with a coat; oddly, trium-
phantly, she did not feel the cold at all.

Neither James nor Harriet Crewe was apt
to hear the snap of a twig or the tiny clatter of
a pebble, but Mrs. Marrable circled the cot-
tage with care. She knew perfectly well that
the girl’s tale of someone in the stables had
been bravado; nevertheless, she sent a long
stare across the fields before she used the
back-door key. The uneven silhouette was a
solid black against the sky—but what was this,
creeping at her out of the dark, as soundless as
she?

Chloé. Huge; head down, tail still, eyes
watchful. Mrs. Marrable caught a breath of
loathing. She opened the back door of the cot-
tage very quietly, and held it. She said whee-
dlingly, ““Come, Chloé, good girl. Come.”

On the couch in the living room, one stock-
inged foot dangling over the end, Harriet bat-
tled with the drug. It wasn’t much of a fight—a
twitch of her hand, an occasional glimmer be-
tween lashes that fell instantly—but, perhaps
because she was responsible for him, and had
seen him fall still dressed into that disturbingly
swift sleep, she had not the inertness of James,
covered with a blanket on his bed.

Her mind had been too dulled to know any-
thing but immediacies. James was ill, and so
was she. Hugh Darrah had said . . . had left his
telephone number .. . she had put it behind
the mirror over the bookcase...

Straining her eyes wide, feeling the room
slip a little around her, she had groped be-
hind the mirror. The card wasn’t there, and
her brain could not grasp the fact that it must
have fallen behind the bookcase. She would
not lie down on the couch, because she might
fall asleep; she would simply sit on it and
think what to do.

M rs. Marrable studied her with care and
contempt. She wes not shamming. Breathing
could be simulated, but the eyelids of a sup-
posed sleeper awake and alert behind them
always trembled under a sufficiently close
scrutiny. Mrs. Marrable was about to move
away when the girl’s lashes parted suddenly,
showing a flash of gray and then blank white
before they met again.

As stubborn as Mrs. Dimmock, thought
Mrs. Marrable with a sudden stab of rage.

Soundless on her crepe soles, she crossed the
living room, locked the front door, deposited
in the corner of an armchair a twist of paper.
On the bookcase beside the chair was a glass
ashtray containing two cigarette ends. Mrs.
Marrable tipped it into the upholstery at a
careful slant, as though it had toppled from
the arm, and struck a match and held it to the
pressed-in paper.

There was a brief bright flame, a faint smell
of scorched fabric, and that was all. Angrily,
because negligent smokers constantly burned
themselves to death with no assistance at all,
Mrs. Marrable went to the kitchen for a knife,
slit the upholstery, tumbled the stuffing out,
and set another match.

This one caught, slumberously but cer-
tainly. Smoke boiled yellowly from the stuffing.
the edges of the fabric were a series of pointed
flames. Mrs. Marrable moved the chair close
to the curtains, saw the hems catch, listened
to the eager growing sound of fire.

On the couch behind her, Harriet Crewe
slept.

The smoke in the room was already thick-
ening. The curtains were half gobbled up in
flame, the pointed tongues beginning to lick
toward the door. They made a weird witch

light, a secretive crackle—cackle?—in the un-
caring silence.

Mrs. Marrable went swiftly into the kitchen,
where there was only a strong smell of smoke.
All her blood seemed to rush into her head
with an uneven thunder, because in front of
the back door, head watchfully up, bulk
braced against any attempt to move her, was
Chloé.

“Chloé,” said Mrs. Marrable in a rising
voice. “Good girl. Get up!”

Chloé growled softly, and the smell of
smoke curled in more strongly.

Mss. Marrable checked her drumming
panic. She leaned over the dog to the door-
knob and pulled and the enormous weight
braced itself and nothing happened. The dog
simply lay there, willing to burn to death,
willing Mrs. Marrable to burn to death.

A hoarse sound caught in Mrs. Marrable’s
throat. She ran toward the living room, and
was met by a wall of smoke and reaching
flame. A spark caught her sweater and she
slapped it out, feeling the heat it had acquired
in an instant.

She ran back to the kitchen door and
wrenched at the dog’s massive shoulders, un-
deterred by the deepening growl. In despair
she seized at its forepaws, and the long silken
nose wrinkled back, the narrow jaws flashed
like lightning. Mrs. Marrable snatched back a
hand from which blood had begun to spurt,
and used her foot.

“Chloé!” she shrieked. “‘Chloé !””

Harriet’s stinging lungs brought her to par-
tial consciousness. Dimly she felt heat, but she
accepted that passively until someone began
to scream in high trailing arcs of sound and
the deep-rooted sense of responsibility for
James stirred lazily. For just a second she
opened her eyes. She stared directly into Hugh
Darrah’s face, bent as he lifted her from the
couch, dark against the fringing radiance of fire
across the room. He said rapidly, “James is out-
side—duck your head,”’ and Harriet turned her
face blindly into his shoulder as they neared the
bewildering flames. Then the door came
wrenching open and icy night air poured over
her like water.

The screaming had stopped.

Like someone drunk or dreaming, she ac-
cepted the lights and the turmoil that pres-
ently shattered the quiet black valley night.
There were a fire engine and then another, cars
with beaconing red lights on top, an ambu-
lance into which James, still sleeping, was
lifted, and in which Harriet was told she must
go too.

Hugh Darrah said something which didn’t
quite penetrate but fell as familiarly as a pat
on the shoulder. The last thing Harriet saw
was Mrs. Marrable’s twitching face.

Beside her, in charge of her, was a uni-
formed man.

James was all right in the morning, al-
though the hospital would keep him another
day. Both he and Harriet were objects of buzz-
ing interest up and down the corridors, and
every now and then a phrase emerged:
“Drunk and out of her mind . . . seventy if
she’s a day .. . Valdez in Emergency said at-
tempted homicide.”

In midmorning. the man Harriet had seen
beside Mrs. Marrable the night before ar-
rived. His name was Armijo, and he took
from Harriet a statement about the previous
evening: Mrs. Marrable’s unusual demeanor,
the odd taste of the drinks, the sleepiness that
had overwhelmed Harriet and James immedi-
ately afterward. He said that under the cir-
cumstances a full investigation would be
opened in the death of Mrs. Dimmock.

“She was obviously afraid you knew some-
thing about it, Miss Crewe. When did you be-
gin to suspect her?”

“Suspect her?’ Harriet had thought herself
completely recovered, but she had to check an
impulse toward unbalanced laughter. “I was
worried about her, I thought she was being
victimized. That’s why I went to her house last
night. She seemed so . . . forlorn.”

Armijo gave her an examining glance and
stood up. He thanked her, said that was all for
now, and hoped she was feeling better. They
might have a few questions to ask her later.

““Where is she now? Mrs. Marrable?”

“Here,” said Armijo; and at Harriet’s face,
“She seems to have suffered some sort of col-
lapse, and she’s under heavy sedation.” His
sudden wry expression seemed directed mostly
at himself. “Don’t worry, she’s being well
watched. You’ll be here in Albuquerque for at
least a few days?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, ] ——

Up the corridor, suddenly, came a walk
Harriet knew, a rapid and intent walk.

“Yes,”’ she said.

Hugh Darrah cosseted her; he told her very
little until she had been released from the hos-
pital. Before leaving, Harriet looked in on
James. Perched high against his pillows, happy
and important as a robin, he was holding
court for a cluster of young nurses, saying as
Harriet came around the door, “‘I said all the
time she was crazy, but nobody would pay
any at——”’

This lunch at the inn—late, at almost two
o’clock—was very different from Harriet’s
earlier visit. For one thing, it was not James

“MERRY VALENTINE,
DARLING!”

By ELIZABETH GRAHAM

She didn’t get that said quite right.
She means she’s rawther fond of
you,
She likes your hands and hair and
height,
Has never wished your eyes were
blue,
Instead enjoys with all her might
Their rawther sailor-sea-green hue.
Smile your smile and her delight
Is fresh and sheer as mountain dew,
You are her rawther shining knight
(She is, alas, your sometime shrew);
Her love will last and last, how trite,
And last and last and last, how true!

but Hugh Darrah who sat across from her; for
another, she was being taken care of, told that
a drink would do her good.

A near table was briefly haunted by the
ghost of a small elderly woman, poised and
imperious in black. Gradually, Darrah dis-
pelled it.

Edna Tinsley, Mrs. Dimmock had told
Hugh Darrah fiercely, was the very last
woman in the world to disappear precipitately
and without warning. She was caution itself,
frightened of bus conductors, reduced to ab-
ject terror by timetables. Apart from that, if
she had left or lost her job she would certainly
have come back to the apartment they shared
in Albuquerque.

Mrs. Dimmock put two and two together,
and got the worst. When Mrs. Marrable hired
her to replace her missing friend, Hugh Dar-
rah argued that if her suspicions had any
foundation it was not a healthy spot. He did
not take very seriously the suggestion that a
wealthy old woman in the valley had done
something sinister with her middle-aged com-
panion; nevertheless, for his own peace of
mind, he insisted on a regular means of com-
munication—a blank postal card daily, which
would commit Mrs. Dimmock to nothing if it
was found.

Darrah, in Albuquerque, grew both curious
and uneasy. By the time he took a room in the
village, Mrs. Dimmock’s suspicion had _ be-
come conviction. There was the insistence
that she have means of her own but no rela-
tives, the gratuitous lie about Edna Tinsley’s
drinking spree, and Mrs. Marrable’s unac-
countable attitude toward Harriet and James.

“She hated you both from the beginning,”
said Darrah, “‘just for being there. Mrs. Dim-
mock warned James away from the place—

LADIES’ HOME JOUI

she was afraid of what might happen to
he began asking questions.”

On the night of Mrs. Marrable’s bir/
dinner, when she was alone and unguardi
the first time, Mrs. Dimmock had sumn
Darrah to the house. They arranged tha
ning that inthe event of any unforeseen ¢
opment Mrs. Dimmock would leave a
sage for Darrah in James’s room in thi
tage, should she be unable to reach hi
telephone. She would tell Harriet that
Marrable had sent her for something ther

“She knew,” said Darrah gently, swir
ice in his glass, “‘that you didn’t trust her

Harriet colored, and met his eyes. “
didn’t.” . . . And how exactly backwar
had had everything, even Darrah’s apy
interest in Julia. (But not, she was sil
vinced, Julia’s in Darrah.) He had wa
look at Mrs. Marrable in her own sett?
an appraisal of her attitude toward her]
panion; besides, it had occurred to hi
Julia might be of use later. She was.

“Julia said the old lady went into a
when she saw the dog. She blamed the
thing on you, said you'd been feeding it
she as much as said that James was 4
burn the cottage down someday, playin
matches as he constantly did. This came
the blue, according to Julia, so it loo
though she meant to establish James as
bug for a reason. On the whole it see
said Darrah, grimacing, ‘‘a fairly good t
move into the stables—it’s cold out there
see what went on.”

@: the still air, he had heard Harri¢
James talking as they crossed the road t¢
Marrable’s house at six o’clock. Whe
did not emerge, it was clear that they haq
asked for cocktails or dinner—and sure
was odd, when she hated them both? 4
ing alarmed, Darrah had let himself i
cottage with the key Mrs. Dimmock had
him, and called the sheriff’s office.

“T didn’t know what she was up to,
thought maybe fire, so I fixed the curté
Armijo could see in and went into Jé
room.” He gave her an apologetic
“Sorry about letting it get so far—s
shrewd as the devil, and if she hadn’
caught in the act Those curtains
cellophane, the way they went up. If if
consolation, the fire didn’t get to your
but some of James’s clothes may be d

Clothes, when it might so easily hav
their lives. ... Harriet sent a mute look
the table, at which Darrah picked
empty glass, studied it minutely, and
down again. “I—I suppose you'll be
back East?”

“Well,” said Harriet in the same st
way, ‘‘yes.””

A patient waiter hovered, and wa
tioned away by Darrah’s head. ““You’l
ably have to testify,’ he said hopefully.

“T suppose I could go and-come back

“You might get to like it out here
Darrah very formally. “The ciimate
perb, and on a fine day there are rattle
on the mesas. You do like rattlesnakes?

Something ridiculously delicate see’
hang on her answer. “From a child,
Harriet.

The body of Edna Tinsley emerge
the reluctant earth five weeks after it h
tered. The day was gray and still, call
good deal of concern to the keeper of 4
buquerque Sunshine Chart, and presé«
timid snow began. |

Chloé was on hand, an object of ay
curiosity to the small crowd of byst
until someone volunteered the infor
that the dog had belonged to a woman
Rose Hull, who had been Mrs. Marth
tenant and then companion. Come to till
it, what had become of Rose Hull? iit
the dog hung around the place like that ’

But the remains under the second
were not those of Rose Hull. The ide
tion in a rotting calf pocketbook belor
an Elizabeth Duarte. After that, in a ma
row, were Iva Turner, Rose Hull anc&}-
Bosworth. |

Someone was heard to remark that @
lady had achieved the ultimate in :
gardening.

— a

r | see

| warm ‘n nourishing

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ae LADIES’ HOME JOURNA)

|
|
I

STARS By MARY W. SCHIFFMANN

The grocer put the carton of milk me. We both felt the need of something big to delight, standing in happy humility before the of my parents could answer, although mj}

i IN on the counter. ‘“Where were you think about. magnitude of the things God has made. [have mother suggested a place to look it up. “Neva

i going last night, all dressed up?’ One compensation I do find forthe inevitable learned to feel in every nerve and bone that the mind,” I remember answering. “If you don}
MY the astronomy class I have anonymity of being wife, mother, homemaker, turning earth—and I, on this earth—is part of know and it isn’t about astronomy, I won|

very week.’ neighbor; one escape from the endless round _ the hosts of heaven, of the billions of stars in- bother!” i

HEA RT “Oh!” Hisvoicechanged, of meals, laundry, trying to keep a house rea- habiting billions of galaxies for billions of When I was in high school, I found and aj)
a deepened from the small- sonably clean. The stars are always there, in years. but memorized a Newcomb’s Popular Astroj
talk tone it had held. “‘Tell me—do you think their mystery and variety—giving at least a My happiest memories are of summer eve- omy. In college, I took courses in astrono

the world is real/y round?” partial answer to those questions that for so nings in childhood when my mother allowed _ And finally, after a rather arid period durir}
I knew how he felt. His fifty or sixty hoursa many years I thought unanswerable. me to stay up late: “The sky is clear, and ll which I read only the occasional books I coull”
week behind the counter hemmed him in as Astronomy has taught me more than I can show you the stars.’’ I could not have been find in small public libraries, I joined th
| effectively as twenty-one meals to cook limited ever put into words. Ihave known wonder and more than ten when I asked a question neither Astronomical Society of New Haven.
| pees = Here a whole world (or, rather, a whole u
| verse!) opened up to me. I learned that amy
| teurs can be of real help to professional astwol

* | omers. There are millions of stars, thousag

We rush these tender beauties ashore, in our Hot ’N Spicy Super Shrimp Dip! of which are known to be worth studying, #

well as countless galaxies and clouds. Profe|

clean them, dip mn golden, batter, bread Recipe on back of package. Just marvel- sional astronomers, of whom there are only)
them and quick-freeze, all in a —. ous! But keep this in mind: AJ} | fw thousandin the world, simply cannot keg

j : 5 f track of every celestial happening. This i
: matter of hours! No defrosting. frozen shrimp are not the same partly because so many events come withdl
Ready to cook and serve in
PT ATT

oi whether you eall ‘em shrimp warning. An eclipse of the sun or moon og
minutes! Marvelous for“instant “atuay

; Sire predicted and watched for; a “new star’ c
or prawns, the jumbo, JUICY | not. Moreover, the professional astronomy
entertaining!” And here’s a SHRIMP
‘ 4) oF ° y. “yy, r ere
treat Party Idea: Dunk them

4 Fishermen

ones are brought to your table may have cloudy weather while an amateur)
& $ . 7 |

hundred miles away may have clear skies ar

ocean fresh, by the 4 Fishermen! | opportunity to make a valuable observatio

So the amateur can make a real contributi¢
i

° e *
Thi to science by keeping watch of the skies. _ |
S 1s oe In the New Haven society, for instane}.
some of us helped keep track of the hundrej:

the famous ; ee of stars that vary in brightness. Others Oo}

. served all occultations visible in the Ne
4, Fishermen é | Havenarea. Occultations—occasions when
See moon passes over and hides a star—occur se]
: ay eral times every month. Observing them hel}
bre aded sas : to improve our present measurements of tl
s

: earth, the moon and the distance betw
shrim ‘ : them—information which will be of vital
p : portance when we send a man to the mo

! i Because a telescope has a relatively sm

field of view, it is not much help in covering tl|

entire sky. It really takes a group of people fil
this; so, when we wanted to count “‘shootit!
stars,” we had meteor parties. Almost aul
clear night when the moon is not too bri
you can be fairly sure of seeing a shooting s
or two, but at certain times of the year regul]
“showers” of meteors streak across the hea¥
ens—often seeming to come from one ||
cinity. The meteors of early August are call
the ‘‘Perseids,” because they shower from ti}
constellation Perseus; those of the winter fro |
the constellation of Gemini are called Genf\
nids. Our meteor parties all seemed to be he})
in cold weather; bundled up to the eyes, we s}
with our backs to one another, watching tl}
sky. Suddenly a voice would call out “Time
and the timekeeper would record a mete¢ |
Some of these we were able to plot on the sli
maps we all held. and once we saw one th
was also seen by parties at Smith and Vass
colleges, so we were able to calculate its heig
by triangulation. It was interesting to lea
that meteors begin to glow at differe
heights—some as high as a hundred mild
some much lower; and that most burn in
ashes before they come as close to the earth
twenty miles!

Mileae = sky watchers are not used to sittii
still for hours at a time in subfreezing ter!
perature, so after an hour we would go into tj
heated observatory for hot soup (it was wel
time, and coffee strictly rationed), and thy
out for another hour. While we watched, \
talked of this and that—it is amazing hq
close you can feel to a person who is siti
back to back with you in the dark.

By the time our watching session was oyd
it always seemed too late to go to bed, so )
would go up into the dome to look through t
telescope. It was after one of these mete
parties that I saw my only comet; and aft
another, zodiacal light—that strange lig
which, some think, is reflected from the myrii
dust specks traveling round the sun, some
which had been falling through our air al
burning up as the very “shooting stars” )
had been recording that night! ;

I began to haunt the Yale University libra
and read, half comprehendingly, all that
could find of professional literature. The d
ference between a professional and an amate

R3
THE GREAT FAMILY ADVENTURE OF OUR TIMES!

Have you and your family ever been to the magic land of a
great World’s Fair? it’s a land of fun... gaiety . . . excite-
ment... things to see and do you'll remember always. For
this is the first World’s Fair of Tomorrow. Imagine being part
of the year 2000, watching your children’s eyes sparkle as
they explore homes with wall-size television . . . as they
OCTOBER 21 examine cars that ride without wheels! Enjoy sharing with
them the ‘doing science” exhibits in the breath-taking multi-million dollar U. S. Science Pavilion.
Step beneath its five arching towers to preview the authentic story our government has assembled
showing how man can conquer space, control weather and give us longer, better lives. Then take
a look... as no other generation ever could . . . at what it’s like beyond the moon. Hold on tight
as space objects, planets and exploding stars pass by on all sides in The Boeing Company’s thrilling
Spacearium, a simulated rocket ride. This is the magic land of Seattle’s 80-million dollar World’s
Fair... an easy-to-see ‘‘jewel-box” full of delight and amazement . . . turn the corner of a broad
tree-rimmed boulevard to discover dazzling exhibits and displays . . . sky-piercing buildings . .
a rainbow of foods, fashions and souvenirs from five continents. You'll want to dine 600 feet in
the sky in the Space Needle’s revolving restaurant . . . try the mile-a-minute Monorail trip to
nearby downtown Seattle . . . see art masterpieces in a “never before, never again” exhibit... .
sample the glittering Gay Way’s custom-imported rides and shows... thrill to the continuing pageant
of song, dance and drama from all over the world. It’s the big family adventure of our times...
packed with fun, loaded with learning, and full of the fascination and charm of foreign lands.

SEE IT IN SEATTLE-FOR SIX WONDERFUL MONTHS-BEGINNING APRIL 21ST!

Oi
EXPOSITION
®

‘at

Washington State Dept. of Commerce & Economic Development
Albert D. Rosellini, Governor

Dept. 8, SEATTLE WORLD'S FAIR, SEATTLE 9, WASH.
Please send me the following:

Further information about Seattle World’s Fair and a foal
Washington State vacation LJ

WASHINGTON &

mis a Wonder-Full state Bae
. seeitall while |

you're here!

* cau Wascauc pDdaCcKas

Further information about housing accommodations (oe)
Name

Address ;

City State

STARS By MARY W. SCHIFFMANN

The grocer put the carton of milk
on the counter. ““Where were you
going last night, all dressed up?”
“To the astronomy class I have

MY every week.”’
Fr & “Oh!” His voice changed,
HEART deepened from the small-

talk tone it had held. “*Tell me—do you think
the world is really round?”

[ knew how he felt. His fifty or sixty hours a
week behind the counter hemmed him in as
effectively as twenty-one meals to cook limited

me. We both felt the need of something big to
think about.

One compensation I do find for the inevitable
anonymity of being wife, mother, homemaker,
neighbor; one escape from the endless round
of meals, laundry, trying to keep a house rea-
sonably clean. The stars are always there, in
their mystery and variety—giving at least a
partial answer to those questions that for so
many years I thought unanswerable.

Astronomy has taught me more than I can
ever put into words. I have known wonder and

snaps) IS sea NR aR”

delight, standing in happy humility before the
magnitude of the things God has made. I have
learned to feel in every nerve and bone that the
turning earth—and I, on this earth—is part of
the hosts of heaven, of the billions of stars in-
habiting billions of galaxies for billions of
years.

My happiest memories are of summer eve-
nings in childhood when my mother allowed
me to stay up late: “The sky is clear, and Pll
show you the stars.”’ I could not have been
more than ten when I asked a question neither

We rush these tender beauties ashore,

‘in our Hot ’N Spicy Super Shrimp Dip!

clean them, dip in golden batter, bread Recipe on back of package. Just marvel-

them and quick- -freeze, all in a
matter of hours! No defrosting.
Ready to cook and serve in
minutes! Marvelous for‘‘instant
And here's a
Great Party Idea: Dunk them

entertaining!”

JUMBO
ELE

BREADED FANTAIL

SHRIMP

This is
the famous
4 Fishermen
breaded

shrimp

ous! But keep this in mind: All
frozen shrimp are not the same
—whether you call ‘em shrimp
or prawns, the jumbo, juicy
ones are brought to your table,
ocean fresh, by the 4 Fishermen

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

of my parents could answer, although my]}
mother suggested a place to look it up. “‘Never
mind,’ I remember answering. “If you don’t}
know and it isn’t about astronomy, I won’t
bother!”

When I was in high school, I found and all)
but memorized a Newcomb’s Popular Astron-\\
omy. In college, I took courses in astronomy.
And finally, after a rather arid period during
which I read only the occasional books I coula
find in small public libraries, I joined the
Astronomical Society of New Haven. ;

Here a whole world (or, rather, a whole unje ||
verse!) opened up to me. I learned that amaé
teurs can be of real help to professional astron= |
omers. There are millions of stars, thousands |
of which are known to be worth studying, as |
well as countless galaxies and clouds. Profes- |
sional astronomers, of whom there are only a |
few thousand in the world, simply cannot keep |
track of every celestial happening. This is’
partly because so many events come without |
warning. An eclipse of the sun or moon can be
predicted and watched for; a “‘new star” can-
not. Moreover, the professional astronomer |
may have cloudy weather while an amateur a |
hundred miles away may have clear skies and |
opportunity to make a valuable observation.
So the amateur can make a real contribution
to science by keeping watch of the skies.

In the New Haven society, for instance, |
some of us helped keep track of the hundreds
of stars that vary in brightness. Others ob- })
served all occultations visible in the New }
Haven area. Occultations—occasions when the |
moon passes over and hides a star—occur sev-
eral times every month. Observing them helps |
to improve our present measurements of the |
earth, the moon and the distance between
them—information which will be of vital im-
portance when we send a man to the moon! |-

Because a telescope has a relatively small |
field of view, it is not much help in covering the |
entire sky. It really takes a group of people for }/
this; so, when we wanted to count “shooting |
stars,” we had meteor parties. Almost any |.
clear night when the moon is not too bright
you can be fairly sure of seeing a shooting star }
or two, but at certain times of the year regular |)
“showers” of meteors streak across the heay-
ens—often seeming to come from one vi- |,
cinity. The meteors of early August are called |
the “‘Perseids,”” because they shower from the
constellation Perseus; those of the winter from
the constellation of Gemini are called Gemi-
nids. Our meteor parties all seemed to be held
in cold weather; bundled up to the eyes, we sat
with our backs to one another, watching the |
sky. Suddenly a voice would call out ‘Time!’ }
and the timekeeper would record a meteor. | |
Some of these we were able to plot on the sky |
maps we all held. and once we saw one that
was also seen by parties at Smith and Vassar
colleges, so we were able to calculate its height
by triangulation. It was interesting to learn |
that meteors begin to glow at different |
heights—some as high as a hundred miles, \)
some much lower; and that most burn into |
ashes before they come as close to the earth as |
twenty miles!

\ Lease sky watchers are not used to sitting ,|
still for hours at a time in subfreezing tem-:%
perature, so after an hour we would go into the’
heated observatory for hot soup (it was war-}|
time, and coffee strictly rationed), and then®
out for another hour. While we watched, wea |
talked of this and that—it is amazing how |
close you can feel to a person who is sitting |
back to back with you in the dark.

By the time our watching session was over,
it always seemed too late to go to bed, so we
would go up into the dome to look through the
telescope. It after one of these meteor
parties that | saw my only comet; and after
another, zodiacal light—that strange light
which, some think, is reflected from the myriad
dust specks traveling round the sun, some of
which had been falling through our air and -
burning up as the very “shooting stars” we
had been recording that night!

I began to haunt the Yale University library
and read, half comprehendingly, all that I
could find of professional literature. The dif-
ference between a professional and an amateur

Was

APRIL 21 TO
OCTOBER 21

a look... as no other generation ever could ..

the sky in the Space Needle’s revolving restaurant .. .
nearby downtown Seattle. .

eee
EXPOSITION
*)

WASHINGTON

. see rt all while
you're here!

is a Wonder-Full state

: =" THE GREAT FAMILY ADVENTURE OF OUR TIMES!
LF Have you and your family ever been to the magic land of a
. 2 a asin | great World’s Fair? It’s a land of fun... gaiety . . . excite-
ment... things to see and do you'll remember always. For
this is the first World’s Fair of Tomorrow. Imagine being part
of the year 2000, watching your children’s eyes sparkle as
they explore homes with wall-size television . . . as they
examine cars that ride without wheels! Enjoy sharing with
them the “doing science” exhibits in the breath-taking multi-million dollar U. S. Science Pavilion.
Step beneath its five arching towers to preview the authentic story our government has assembled
showing how man can conquer space, control weather and give us longer, better lives. Then take
. at what it’s like beyond the moon. Hold on tight
as space objects, planets and exploding stars pass by on all sides in The Boeing Company’s thrilling
Spacearium, a simulated rocket ride. This is the magic land of Seattle’s 80-million dollar World’s
Fair ...an easy-to-see “jewel-box’”’ full of delight and amazement . .
tree-rimmed boulevard to discover dazzling exhibits and displays .
a rainbow of foods, fashions and souvenirs from five continents. You’ll want to dine 600 feet in
try the mile-a-minute Monorail trip to
. see art masterpieces in a “never before, never again” exhibit...
sample the glittering Gay Way’s custom-imported rides and shows. .
of song, dance and drama from all over the world. It’s the big family adventure of our times. .
packed with fun, loaded with learning, and full of the fascination and charm of foreign lands.

SEE IT IN SEATTLE-FOR SIX WONDERFUL MONTHS-BEGINNING APRIL 21ST!

. turn the corner of a broad
. Sky-piercing buildings...

. thrill to the continuing pageant

Washington State Dept. of Commerce & Economic Development
Albert D. Rosellini, Governor

Dept. 8, SEATTLE WORLD’S FAIR, SEATTLE 9, WASH.
Please send me the following:

Further information about Seattle World’s Fair and a linc
Washington State vacation es)

Further information about housing accommodations (ea)
Name

Address

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astronomer is not, fundamentally, that the
professional earns a salary (although amateurs
are always complaining that their jobs inter-
fere with their astronomy). It is rather that the
professional astronomer uses mathematics.

Professional reports tend to be expressed in
a kind of mathematical shorthand. We may
say, “in six hours or so”; the professional
gives ‘0.27638 day.” This makes original re-
ports look forbidding enough to scare one
away for life. I had forgotten most of my hard-
won college mathematics, but what I could
not understand I simply accepted. With this
philosophical attitude, I found I could usefully
read The Astrophysical Journal, where interest-
ing new discoveries and theories are published.

In the midst of all this study, | moved to
New York—a move that changed my life, for
in swift succession I fell in love, married and
had a baby. The housing shortage was at its
worst, and our first real home was in a dreary
district far from parks and open skies and (it
seemed) from stars. For two years my husband
and I never went out together, for we had no
one to take care of little Peggy. The only place
I went was the monthly lectures of the ama-
teur astronomers’ association, and it was with
real relief (and my husband’s full approval)
that I began attending again the class in ad-
vanced astronomy that met once a week.

Before I left New Haven I had found out the
name of the amateur astronomers’ association
in New York, and now I started attending the
class in advanced astronomy which met once a
week. This is a class from which no one ever
really graduates; year after year old students
and new study together the current books,
trying to keep abreast of the current explosive
development of astronomy.

Through this class—called “Recent Ad-
vances in Astronomy” to describe its continu-
ing nature—I met many interesting people,
and came to know them in a rather special
way. I might share the excitement of tracing
the life history of a star with a young woman,
yet never know if she was married or single,
rich or poor. I felt equally compatible with the
young college boy who called me “Mary” and
the gentleman of eighty-four who said his edu-
cation would be completed only when he was
carried out feet first. There were shabby peo-
ple among us, as well as those who could
afford the most elaborate equipment. Some
joined casually, having been stimulated by the
popular demonstration at the Hayden Plane-
tarium and wanting to learn more; others were
working seriously for professional degrees.
Most of us never learned much about one an-
other’s private lives—not through lack of sym-
pathy but simply because we had too much
astronomy to talk about!—but we felt a
peculiar understanding. And we had the dis-
tinguishing mark all astronomers share. When
we go outside, we automatically look up—to
check the skies and to orient ourselves.

In a group composed of so many young star-
gazers it would have been strange indeed if
some had not paired off, and we did have oc-
casional romances. But the couple I found
most appealing were a retired professor of
economics and his wife, who took up astron-
omy enthusiastically now that they had “time
to study.’” Her eyes were poor, so he read the
lessons aloud to her. They were so inseparable
that he looked incomplete the night he turned
up alone, saying that his wife had to have an
operation. All the time she was sick he never
went out at all, except to come to astronomy
class. I believe it helped him to have something
“big” to think of during this anxious period.

a
ie professor was not the only one who
turned to the stars for comfort. There was the
young woman who came to me for advice
about becoming a professional astronomer. I
had known her for a long time, for she had
joined our group years before in order to keep
up the work she had begun in college, and had
continued to attend class even after her mar-
riage. Now she told me that her husband
wanted a divorce; she felt her life falling apart,
and thought astronomy might give her some-
thing permanent to hang on to. She soon left
the city and so I never learned whether she had
followed my advice; but perhaps the stars did
steady her, for later she married again.

Five years after I joined the “Recent Ad-
vances’”’ class, we found ourselves unexpectedly

LADIES’ HOME JOURDP

leaderless. Since it was an emergency, ;
since I happened to be the only member ay
able whose native language was Englist
accepted the job, and have held it for eéi
years now.

Now that my daughter is fourteen, I am
longer so tied down; but I spend most eveni
typing dictation for my husband, who i
translator, and I seldom get far from hoi
Most of the time I keep to my own orbit,
dom seeing anything but my four rooms ¢%
attic, and the pleasant tree-lined streets
Flatbush. I often think of the man who |
swered an advertisement for a summer cott)
with a distant view, and found it all hemn)
in. “Ah,” said the agent, “you can see nfhe
three million miles every sunny day!”” #

1 fi
Do can I. And I can see even farther oj
clear night. I can see the nebula of Ori
where even now stars may be being born; 2
the faint ghostly light of the nebula of /
dromeda, the most remote object the nak
eye can see. I can see Sirius, brightest of}
stars, and know that it is actually not ones
but two—Siamese-twin stars, one young 4)
vigorous, the other dead of old age, and |
incredibly squashed together, weighing as mu
as the sun, but no larger than the earth. Inj
constellation of the Lyre I can find cool b
Vega, or bold Betelgeuse, the red star of Oric
I know that the bigger, more brilliant star
see in the night skies are probably spinni
quite fast, while others less spectacular (1
our own sun) are rotating in a sedate a
matronly manner. I can tell the seasons by |
wheeling of the great constellations: one oft
earliest signs of spring is the sickle of L
shining in the east just as night falls; in <
tumn the Northern Cross beams down frc
almost directly overhead.

Best of all, the stars are there for us é
Astronomy doesn’t ask your politics or race
sex or age or even college degree. One of t
most important discoveries about how thes
shines was made independently in America
Hans Bethe, who was a Nazi refugee; and
Germany by C. F. von Weiszaeker, who w
related to an important Nazi general. Willia
Herschel, who discovered the planet Urant
was originally an organist who began to stu
the stars as a hobby. Today, at professior
meetings, women astronomers such as Ru
Roman, Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin and Che
lotte Moore Sitterly present their reports wi
as much assurance as the men, and get t
same respectful attention. It is true that ha
dling the largest telescopes is considered t
strenuous for a woman to manage for a ft
night; except for this, there is no reason for
woman to feel at a disadvantage in astronor
ical circles. Indeed, women excel in what
think of as the “bookkeeping jobs’’—recor
ing and handling hundreds of thousands |
bits of information. It is interesting to no
that long before woman suffrage could ha’
affected England’s Royal Astronomical S
ciety, two distinguished women were admitte
as associate members: William Herschel’s d
voted sister Caroline, who helped him grir
mirrors for his telescope and recorded his o|
servations; and Annie Jump Cannon, of Ha
vard, who produced the monumental Hen)
Draper catalogue of stellar places and spectr’
types in the early decades of this century. *

One of the most characteristic expressiot
of astronomers is “‘exciting’”—for, like Kij
ling’s Elephant Child, they have a «satiall
curtiosity”’ about the universe, and are willir
to work hard for the sake of satisfying it. L
before the ancient Egyptian pyramids wel
built, people knew that their very lives di
pended on energy from the sun; but centuri¢
passed before they found out that our hot su
is really a star like those millions of others thi
seem so cold and remote; and it was longé
still before someone dared suggest that mi
lions of miles out in space there might be a sté
like our sun... with a planet like our earth.,
and perhaps, on that planet, life!

Every day astronomy is helping us answé
questions that have plagued man since the be
ginning of time. But many questions remai)
unsolved, and will continue to spur us t/
bolder effort and greater discovery. One thin}
above all I have learned through my study ¢}
the stars: for the mind’s adventure there is n
journey’s end. EN}

“=>

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O CHILDREN
IVER BENEFIT
ROM DIVORCE?

YNTINUED FROM PAGE 32

cause basically they get more satisfaction
an dissatisfaction from quarreling—however
hemently they deny it—the child’s attitude
»ward them and toward his own eventual
arriage is going to be distorted to some de-
ee. But if they are divorced and if the mother
as too deep a tendency to seek quarrels, there
| a chance she may involve herself, and her
hild, in another marriage of a similar pattern.
If you will look back at the letter from which
quoted you can see why I suspect that the
al issue is quite different from the mother’s
estion whether to divorce or not. The flavor
* the letter suggests that father and mother
ave been locked in an endless tease-and-be-
ased relationship and that they are involving
e boy. The mother feels that the father
ymes home all set to be mean, which I have
5 doubt he does. But if he were asked his
ew of the conflict he might say that she
atches him resentfully from the minute he
ters, puts the worst interpretation on every-
ing he does with the boy, until he gets so
ad that he sometimes does pick on him.
Inother indication that the mother doesn’t
nderstand what’s gone wrong is her state-
ent that her husband is totally lacking in
dmirable qualities and that she discovered
ais just as soon as they were married. If true,
‘hy did she not suspect it before they were
harried? (This doesn’t sound like the whirl-
‘ind marriage of crazy teenagers.) Two grown
zople don’t fool each other that easily,
nough they may fool themselves. And if he
as that bad, why did she go on living with
im when there was no child to consider, and
Ihy did she then have a child by him? I

(HE KILLER
IAD BEEN PAROLED

INTINUED FROM PAGE 40

f trial. Maryland recognizes the borderline
jatus of criminals who are mentally un-
alanced, but not legally insane. Such of-
tnders can be sent to the state’s Patuxent
stitution for treatment. When a board of
view feels they are ready to live outside the
stitution, they are released on a_ proba-
onary status, similar to parole, on the condi-
on that they continue to see a psychiatrist
>gularly.
New York has a law, passed in 1960, which
ermits the court to examine and recommit
ersons released from mental hospitals to
hich they had been sent following acquittal
nm grounds of insanity. Itedées not apply to
€ criminal who may be legally sane, but still
angerous. One wonders why such a law
puldn’t be extended to all dangerous felons
ho go on parole.

Under Massachusetts’ Briggs Law, enacted
1 1921, anyone indicted for a crime for which
e had previously been convicted, anyone in-
cted for a capital offense, and anyone previ-
sly convicted of a felony is given a psy-
jatric examination before being tried. But
gain, this seems like closing the barn door
ter the horse has been stolen.

The most frequently raised objection to any
lan to require examination of paroled felons
the “shortage” of psychiatrists. It is claimed
dat such programs would require untold
qan-hours and waste the time of experts by
laking them examine individuals who would

ever commit another act of violence.
} Obviously it is not imperative to examine
orgers and similar felons whose crimes are not
physical menace. In his earlier book, Crime
nd the Human Mind, Dr. Abrahamsen names
ese as the types of offenders who should be
iven thorough examinations at the time of
leir trials: all sexual offenders, pyromaniacs,
qurderers and assaultists.

If the same yar@stick were applied to pa-
olees, just how big a load would it be for
aminers? New York paroled 4616 prisoners
1 the year 1959. Of these, 130 were guilty of
aurder or first-degree manslaughter, 137 of

sound like a district attorney. It’s not that I’m
critical of her as a person. If I’d heard the
father’s story instead, I'd be just as skeptical
of his interpretation. I’m only emphasizing the
point again that when two people, who were
once enough in love to marry, reach the stage
of considering each other scoundrels, and if
they can’t talk things out together, they need
to talk them over with someone else.

I’ve concentrated on one type of marital
problem because it’s so common and because
it brings out the issue of the child’s welfare.
But psychiatrists and other counselors have
found dozens of other psychological factors
which work to undermine marriages. Some
are superficial, but many are complex and
hidden from view in the unconscious. In-
fidelity is often basically caused by self-doubt
or resentment toward the spouse rather than
true infatuation. A couple who have married
supposedly for a partnership of mutual co-
operation may reveal by their subsequent be-
havior that each is unconsciously expecting
to be totally dependent on the other, like a
small child. A woman who is well adjusted
in most respects but who is overcompetitive
with men may, without any realization of it,
respond to and marry a man whose forceful-
ness is inhibited already, and then fail to ex-
press any confidence in him in whatever suc-
cess he may achieve afterward. And a man,
because of forgotten hurts in his own child-
hood, may be impelled to undermine his
wife’s serenity. Romantic attitudes and sexual
responsiveness which seemed ideal during
courtship may disappear after the wedding,
not because the individuals were insincere but
because certain attitudes toward sex and mar-
riage deeply absorbed during childhood some-
times play cruel tricks with adult feelings.

Though I’ve urged professional consulta-
tion, I don’t want to leave the impression
that it’s a quick-and-easy solution. If there is

rape or other sex crimes, 385 of assault and
attempted assault and 14 of arson—a total
of 666.

If each of these parolees was given two ex-
aminations a year, of two hours each, the
load would be only 380 man-days of examin-
ing. Double the time to allow for writing re-
ports, and so on, and the job could still be
done by three or four psychiatrists. Allow
for the fact that the total number of parolees in
New York on January 1, 1961, was about twice
the number paroled in the year 1959, and you
still have a job of manageable proportions. In
smaller states one full-time examiner, or sey-
eral consultants, could handle it.

Would compulsory examinations infringe
on a parolee’s “freedom” or constitute harass-
ing an individual who “had paid his debt to
society”’?

Dr. Banay’s reply to this is: ““Nonsense.
The examinations are not punitive. Society
has as much right to examine felons as it
does typhoid carriers, or to require epilep-
tics to take an examination before they’re
allowed to drive. For the protection of society,
sex criminals should be on parole for life.”

Whatever their private remedy, all the ex-
perts agree that you can’t keep every criminal
in jail for life or every mental patient in an
institution forever. But neither can society
afford the risk of turning felons loose without
better safeguards than we have against their
committing new crimes.

One answer is the indeterminate sentence,
with minimum and maximum limits fixed by
the court. Since 1936 all persons sentenced to
prison in New York State have received this
kind of sentence. Such prisoners can be
paroled at any time after the completion of
their minimum sentence, less time off for good
behavior and work willingly performed. When
released on parole, the inmate is not a free
man, but can be returned to prison at any
time until the expiration of his maximum
sentence.

Some top criminologists believe the solution
is the completely indeterminate sentence for
violent and heinous felons. New York has
such a law under which certain types of sex
offenders can be sentenced for from one day
to life. While in prison, the prisoner must be
given a psychiatric examination every six

good will on the part of both partners and if
the roots of their problem do not go very deep,
they may be able to achieve considerable
understanding and harmony in a few months’
time. If the conflicts are severe and have their
main origins buried in the unconscious, they
may be satisfactorily coped with only through
intensive psychoanalysis lasting several years.
However, it would be compounding an
American misconception, I think, to imply
that a marriage can be a success only if both
partners are ideally adjusted. The general spirit
in which a marriage is lived is more crucial
than any of its specific aspects. For example,
despite the importance of a good sexual ad-
justment in most marriages, there are instances
which show that its absence may not cause
failure if the partners have great devotion to
each other and to their joint endeavors.
Visitors from foreign lands and anthro-
pologists who’ve studied marriage in other
parts of the world are always impressed with
the extraordinary emphasis on romantic love
in America, the widespread acceptance of the
notion that love strikes two people like a bolt
of lightning and that this mutual attraction
automatically assures their living happily ever
after. This despite the fact that we have one
of the highest divorce rates in the world. It’s
not that there isn’t a large kernel of truth in
the magic power of love. Even in countries
where marriages are arranged without the par-
ticipation of the young people it is assumed
that they will come to love each other. But in
most parts of the world marriage is heavily
invested with other purposes and obligations,
too, which are taken very seriously: the ful-
fillment of God’s design; the rearing of chil-
dren to carry out the work of the family or to
perpetuate its honor or to serve the nation;
the selfless co-operation of the couple them-
selves in their daily toil, which is vital in most
countries just to keep a family alive. In

months. He can be paroled at any time, but
only after he has been given a “clean bill of
mental health,” and can be returned to prison
if he violates his parole rules or appears to be
“slipping.” But although there have been
more than 40,000 sex felonies in the state since
the law was enacted in 1950, it was used only
243 times by the courts through 1960. Of the
243 sex criminals sentenced under the act, 115
were paroled. Only 15 were returned for parole
violation or for a new crime.

Dr. Guttmacher thinks it would be sufficient
to call a parolee up for psychiatric examina-
tion if his parole officer sensed something was
wrong. But parole officers are more over-
worked and underpaid than psychiatrists and
in almost as short supply, and few of them
are qualified to diagnose emotional troubles.

Dr. Guttmacher also favors psychiatric out-
patient clinics for probationers—open at night
so as not to interfere with their jobs. This
sounds logical, but why not make it for
parolees too?

Dr. Abrahamsen goes so far as to suggest
that potential murderers could be detected
in advance if we had a system of clinics in
which “‘maladjusted persons in conflict with
society and with themselves” could be ex-
amined and treated. ““The task,” he admits,
“is great, but considering the great number
of homicides causing unspeakable suffering to
the persons involved and producing serious
damage to society, it would be more than worth
the cost.”

Perhaps the most workable solution of all
is the suggestion of Dr. Vernon Fox, chairman
of the Criminology and Corrections Depart-
ment, Florida State University. He thinks the
idea of mental checkups is sound. To reduce
the load on examiners, he would have all
prisoners serving time for violent felonies
diagnosed as completely as possible by a
psychiatrist, a clinical psychologist and a
psychiatric social worker during the thirty
days prior to their release from prison. Each
soon-to-be-paroled prisoner would be given
a complete battery of psychological tests,
which Dr. Fox believes are more penetrating
than most psychiatric diagnoses based on
short interviews.

Prisoners whose tests indicated a need for
psychiatric follow-up could then be super-

America such considerations are not ignored
altogether, especially by the parents of the
bride and groom. But with our indulgence of
the young, the ease with which we make a
living, and our official credo that love con-
quers all, I think we let many children grow
up assuming that everyone is entitled to re-
ceive happiness in marriage as a gift (like a
wedding present from Cupid). Then if it’s not
forthcoming they assume that it has been
snatched away by a spouse who was hiding
his selfish nature during the courtship.

Anybody who has been at least moderately
successful in his marriage knows that it
doesn’t take care of itself, any more than a
business or garden does. A great deal has to
be learned at first about one’s spouse and one-
self. Countless adjustments and accommoda-
tions have to be made in a hurry. As the years
unroll it becomes evident that cultivation is
still necessary, in the sense of discussion, con-
sideration and graciousness. Even with these
benefits a marriage may lose some of its sense
of meaning unless the couple share a genuine
devotion to the rearing of their children, and
to other causes. The happiness that comes from
marriage is, of course, simply a by-product of
the effort and love that are invested in it.

We assume that our children will come to
understand the spiritual, altruistic and realistic
aspects of marriage from the example we try
to set, as well as from the teachings of church
and literature. If there is no example they
surely won’t learn it through words. But per-
haps as parents we should make more of an
effort to be explicit in words, too, especially
during adolescence, when their capacity for
idealism is high but when, at the same time,
they have an inclination to be excessively
romantic and also self-centered.

Dr. Spock regrets that it is impossible for him to answer
letters personally. However, he is delighted to receive
suggestions of topics of truly general interest.—ED.

vised through the parole system for as long as
necessary—even for life. Parolees would be
supervised closely at first—several times a
month—then once a month, then at less fre-
quent intervals, finally by “implied super-
vision”’ only.

During the implied-supervision period, the
parole officer, preferably a psychiatric social
worker, would keep in touch with the pa-
rolee’s employer, church, social agencies, and
the like, but would spare him the embarrass-
ment of direct supervision. The parolee could
be given a final examination before his final
release from parole.

Before going to Florida, Dr. Fox did this
sort of examining for the Michigan Parole
Board. Using the Rohrschach (ink blot) and
other tests, he was able with considerable ac-
curacy to advise the board on parole of
prisoners about whom it had doubts. On the
basis of the tests, he would sometimes recom-
mend parole through regular channels. In
other cases, parole was recommended only in
a rural environment, where there would be
fewer aggravations to trigger a new outburst.
In still others, he recommended parole to a
specific parole officer known to be able to
handle a particular type of person. In some
cases, he recommended against parole under
any circumstances.

Dr. Fox’s plan would offer society the pro-
tection of psychiatric and psychological super-
vision of potentially dangerous ex-felons with-
out wasting the examiners’ time on those who
the prerelease tests indicated were almost sure
to be nonviolent.

Of course the problem is not simple. It will
cost money to provide the psychiatrists and
psychologists and social workers to do the
job. There are sure to be mistakes, and a
chorus of “I told you so’s” when a parolee
diagnosed as “‘safe’’ kicks over the traces.

All these risks and all these costs we can
afford. But can we afford the risk of a Law-
rence Moser next door, a Joseph DeSalvo
upstairs ?

As the Reverend Mr. Osborne said in his
sermon: “All this tragedy is to no avail if we
learn nothing from it. All of the seven people
who have been scarred for life or who are
dead will have suffered in vain if we do noth-
ing about it.” END

Louise
makes
MARY
LYNN’S
WEDDING

BY ELAINE HANNA

+ *
Da | I

M: | Lyni
( d‘

ment

sure

plastic

sprays

2) Sy

will neec
Louiss I i

ut I heir cake

*s wedding cake was a labor of love,”’

Aunt

CAKE

—and

says Louise
February bride. (See page 68.) “I’m really just an
d a decorating lesson, and I’ve no special equip-
ixer, a set of wedding-cake pans, a few inex-
. courage!’’ We were so impressed with her
that we asked her to share her recipe and
Here they are, step by step, to help you make a
lear to your heart.
reed the following equipment: one 16”
and one 7” cake pan each 21%” deep;
k; heavy aluminum foil and waxed

ies; 1 large lazy Susan—to make frost-

isteboard cake dividers cut to mea-
diameter; one 3 , one 2” and one 1 14”
irds narrow white satin ribbon;

{ tips—rose, star and leaf.

start baking cakes. You
to make Aunt
yers two 16”, two

Clipe riven here

this beautiful cake deserves a closer look! Beautiful to behold—luscious to the last crumb—made with loving hands.

13”, two 10” and two 7” layers. As each layer is baked and cooled, wrap
securely in aluminum foil and keep in a cool place. Cover the 20” circle of
plywood smoothly with heavy foil, fastening it underneath.

3. Two days before the wedding, make sugar bells and decorative roses
of white frosting, using a No. 124 rose tip. Form each on a piece of waxed
paper. Bells and roses should dry 4-6 hours or overnight.

4. The day before the wedding, put foil-covered plywood on lazy Susan.
Arrange doilies on foil so that they extend gracefully over edge of circle,
taping them to center of board. Cover outer edge of doilies with triangles
of waxed paper—the points of the triangles should be just under the edge
of the cake when it is in place. They will protect the doilies while the cake
is being frosted and can be easily pulled out after decorating is completed.
Assemble the cake: Place one 16” cake layer on prepared board. Spread
with pineapple-coconut filling. Cover with second 16” layer, bottom side
cake layer on a 13”
divider. Spread layer with filling. Now place cake and divider on top of
16” tier, taking care to center it. Cover with second 13” layer, bottom side
up. Frost top lightly. Repeat until all layers are in place. Then frost the
cake. Starting from the top, lightly frost

up. Frost top lightly to seal crumbs. Place one 13

CONTINUED ON PAGE 120

eS b s , q —
7 cite aaam rn ae = % . . a Y

~ Delicious... fun...fast fixin' with Ballard 4 Biscuits
and Kratt Deluxe Slices !

Easy to fix. Two tender Ballard delicious, meal-size turnover in mere
OvenReadye Biscuits, rolled out, filled minutes. Serve piping hot. Cheeseburger
with hamburger and topped with rich Turnovers make an instant hit at meal-
Kraft Deluxe Slices, turn into a juicy, _ time or any time. Try them and see!

CHEESEBURGER TURNOVERS
Serves 5 for less than $1.00!

16 lb. ground beef 1 can Ballard OvenReady Biscuits
1 tablespoon chopped onion 5 Kraft Deluxe Slices
14 teaspoon salt Pasteurized Process

Dash of pepper American Cheese

Combine meat, onion, salt and pepper, and cook over low heat
5 minutes or until lightly browned.

For each turnover, place 2 biscuits, slightly overlapping, on well

floured surface. Roll until each biscuit forms an oval about

5 inches long. Place about 3. tablespoons of meat mixture on 1

biscuit and top with 2 half slices of cheese. Moisten edges

with water, fold the second biscuit over the meat and cheese, SS

and seal with fork. Prick top. Yy “Vi

Bake in a hot oven, 425° for 8 to 10 minutes until golden brown.
Serve as a hot sandwich, or top with catsup or mustard.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL
120

| CONTINUED FROM PAGE 118 Pineapple-Coconut Filling

114 cups coconut
milk or water

3 cups grated fresh
coconut or

sides of each tier to seal crumbs. Let dry 1-2 3 (1-Ib.-4-0z.) cans
hours. Then frost the entire cake (starting or 73 Cups
from the top as before), making the surface as crushed pine-
smooth as possible. Let dry at least 2-3 hours apple

before decorating. To decorate: First decorate 2M cups sugar — 3 (3/4-02.) cans or}
the sugar bells with a narrow edge of frosting. 74 CUP lemon juice packages flaked
Put aside to dry. When decorating the cake, “4 CUP cornstarch coconut }
begin at the top. Connect each tier to the one ;
below with a decorative design. Mark semi- Heat pineapple, sugar and lemon juice in aj
circles with cookie cutter; use decorative tip large saucepan. Mix cornstarch and coconut |
to outline. Complete decorating as you wish. milk or water. Add to pineapple mixture.
Pull out waxed-paper triangles. Make a large Cook and stir until thickened and no taste of
design around base of cake to “seal” it to cornstarch remains. Remove from heat and
board. Arrange bells and roses on cake. Secure stir in coconut. Let stand until cold. This }
with white frosting. Add lily-of-the-valley amount (12 cups) is sufficient for spreading |

Mrs. Gavin's new winter coat sprays and white satin ribbon bows. between layers of the 4-tier cake.

ce +
replaces the mauve one T have

AUNT LOUISE’S
GOLD-AND-WHITE WEDDING CAKE

Basic recipe for one mixing

worn steadily for the past ten Frosting

Basic recipe for 1 mixing aS

1 cup white vege- lg cup milk |
table shortening Juice of 1 or 2 F,

2 (1-lb.) packages lemons

confectioners’ sugar

years.” In blue tweed, it has

double-breasted closing, grace- 14 cup butter or 14 teaspoon almond

ful, easy flare. Price is typical margarine flavoring

of what she spends, $95.00. 14 cup shortening 3 cups sifted flour

: 2 cups sugar 1 tablespoon baking

4 eggs, room powder
temperature 1 cup milk, room

This is one of my husband's Beat shortening until light and fluffy. Add 1

sugar and milk alternately, beating after each §
1 teaspoon vanilla temperature addition. Add lemon juice and beat until mix-

] teaspoon lemon ture is very smooth. Keep covered with af

flavoring damp cloth to prevent drying.

For Decorative Uses (roses, sugar-bell trim
and tip decorations): Make up | mixing of the
basic frosting recipe, but reduce milk to 1-2
tablespoons to make frosting firm enough to
hold shape of decorations.

favorites.” Mrs. Gavin added
her white ribbon lace gown
from Balmain last spring. It

came with a huge pistachio- Line the bottom of each cake pan with waxed
paper. Cream butter, shortening and sugar
until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time,
beating after each addition. Add flavorings.
Sift flour with baking powder and add to
creamed mixture a little at a time, alternately
with the milk, beginning and ending with Sugar Bells

flour. Fill cake pans about half full with bat- 2! pounds super- One 314”, one 2”

ter. This makes a very high cake. The pans can fine sugar and one 114” plastic

green satin stole. Here Mrs. i

Gavin wears it with her favor-

ite color, turquoise.

be filled 14 to % full if you prefer more shal- 1 egg white, bell mold purchased
low tiers. The basic recipe will make about 7 unbeaten from a local bakery

or bakery-supplies J

cups batter. To half fill the pans, you will need Cornstarch
manufacturer \

about 14 cups batter, or 2 mixings for the 16” \
pan, 10 cups batter for the 13” pan, 6! cups \

ENT

ROGER PRIC¢

MRS. JAMES GAVIN CONTINUED FROM PAGE 65

She has found ready-to-wear prices high in Paris, and plans to buy
most of the girls’ clothes and many of her own’ from home. “I
stocked up on American shoes.”

The stand-bys she brought with her include: a mauve winter
coat, 10 years old; a gray wool sheath bought 6 years ago; a green
wool jacket dress and a gray tweed suit, both 2 years old. For evening
wear she has: a short green peau de soie, 7 years old; a black light-
weight-wool sheath costume she had made in Italy 10 years ago; a
pink brocade dress bought 7 years ago; and two long gowns—a 10-
year-old red brocade and her Inauguration dress, a brown velvet
skirt with a jeweled top. To go over these, Mrs. Gavin has a fur
stole and a red silk coat. Before leaving for Paris, she bought a
black wool suit and three evening dresses, two of them short.
In Paris she added two short dresses and a long white gown
from Balmain.

Mrs. Gavin used to wear her hair in a chignon, loved hats and
‘wore them all the time.”’ Now with a shorter, fuller hair style she
has just a few back-of-the-head ones that don’t crush her hairdo,
usually finds a small veil is the best solution for occasions that
demand a hat. She has gold and pear! jewelry for daytime, almost
always wears one of her gold charm bracelets—a special favorite is
made up of all her husband’s medals. For evening she wears pearls,
adds glittering earrings.

Mrs. Gavin organizes her wardrobe on a ‘yearly rather than a
seasonal basis, has clothes she can wear almost any time during
the busy September June period in Paris. Her black wool with the

jacket stole “is the ideal costume. The hemline has gon¢ up se eral

times with fashion changes.’ Her new Paris clothes fit this plan—the
beautiful Balmain will be as pretty at a midsummer ball as it is in
midwinter. Like everything Mrs. Gavin lives in and loves, it will

undoubtedly be in her wardrobe ten years from now.

batter for the 10” pan and 3 cups batter for the
7” pan. When you require 2 mixings to fill a
pan, turn first mixing into prepared pan or a
bowl and refrigerate while you mix the second
batch. Bake 16” and 13” cakes in a moderately
slow oven, 325° F., about | hour and 15 min-
utes for the 16” and about | hour and 5 minutes
for the 13”, or until tops spring back when
touched. Bake 10” and 7” cakes in a moderate
oven, 350° F., about 50 minutes for the
10” and 45 minutes for the 7”, or until tops
spring back when touched. Remove from oven
and cool in pans on wire cake racks for 10
minutes. Loosen edges of cakes and invert on
racks. (An oven rack can be used for the
largest cakes, or tie two cake racks together.)
Peel off waxed paper. Cool thoroughly before
wrapping in foil. Remember you need to
bake 2 cakes of each size to make a tier.

Mix sugar and egg white. Rub between palms
of hands until egg white is distributed evenly
throughout sugar. Dust inside of each mold}
with cornstarch. Fill molds with sugar, pack-
ing mixture down very firmly. Level off the
surface. Invert mold on waxed paper. Care-
fully remove mold. Allow sugar molds to dry
at room temperature about 1—2 hours, depend-
ing on size. Do not allow to dry until solid
throughout. Hollow out the bells by carefully
scraping the moist sugar from inside, leaving a
shell 14” to 14” thick. Use a small spoon or
knife or handle of a spoon for the smallest
bells. Sugar removed from inside can be used
to fill other molds. Allow to dry overnight at
room temperature.

To decorate your cake like Mrs. Caldwell’s
you will require 3 large bells, 10 medium size
and 16 small.

YOUNG HOSTESSES
ACROSS AMERICA
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 77

PHYLLIS WAY’S PECAN ROLLS
Pour | cup boiling water over 14 cup sugar, 1%
cup butter or margarine, and | teaspoon salt.
Stir and set aside until the butter is melted and
the mixture is lukewarm. Dissolve 1 package
active dry yeast in 2 tablespoons lukewarm
water to which you have added 14 teaspoon
sugar. Add the yeast and 2 beaten eggs to the
first mixture. Stir in 441% cups sifted flour
until a soft dough is formed. Beat well. Then
cover and refrigerate overnight. When ready
to use, prepare this topping:

Melt 14 cup butter or margarine. Stir in 7%
cup firmly packed brown sugar and 2-3 table-
spoons dark corn syrup. Divide this mixture
evenly between two 8”x8”x2” pans. Scatter
pecan halves over the sugar. Roll the dough
out into a rectangle about %4” thick and 12”
wide. Brush with a little melted butter and
then roll up, the long way, like a jelly roll. Cut
into 24 slices, each 4” thick. Set these on the
brown-sugar mixture. Place the pans in a
warm place, cover with a towel, and let rise
until double in size, about 40 minutes. Bake in
a hot oven, 400° F., until golden, about 20
minutes. Makes 24 rolls.

MARILYN TAYLOR’S CRABMEAT
CASSEROLE

Pick over | pound fresh crabmeat to remove
bits of bone and shell. Place in bowl and add 2
chopped, hard-cooked eggs, '4 cup mayon-
naise, 14 cup boiled salad dressing, | peeled,
onion, grated. 14 cup finely chopped parsley,
3 tablespoons lemon juice, 2 tablespoons
Worcestershire sauce, 1 tablespoon prepared
mustard and 3 tablespoons chicken broth or
sherry. Toss 11% cups fresh bread crumbs with}
3 tablespoons melted butter. Add 1% cup to thé}
crab mixture. Turn into a buttered 2-quart}
shallow casserole and sprinkle with remaining]
crumbs. Bake in a moderate oven, 350° F., for}
about 45 minutes, until casserole is bubbling. |
Garnish with parsley. Makes 6 servings. 3

JANE YOUNT’S HOT CIDER PUNCH
Pour | gallon apple cider into a large kettle.
Add 4 washed and thinly sliced lemons and 4
washed and thinly sliced oranges, 8 broken
sticks cinnamon, | teaspoon whole cloves and
2 teaspoons whole allspice. Heat very slowly
until the punch reaches a boil. This should
take about 45 minutes. Cool and strain. Pour
into containers. Cover and refrigerate. Re-
heat before serving. Float additional thin,
seeded orange and lemon slices on punch
bowl for garnish. Makes enough punch for 30
generous and warming servings. END

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Mary Lynn Morrill sets her table for a February dinner party.

bnides frvst

dinnex

aay

“‘T selected my silver pattern while I was still in the twelfth grade,”’
writes our How America Spends Its Money bride, Mary Lynn
Morrill. “It was almost by chance: two local department stores
gave every girl in our graduating class a silver spoon, in the pattern
of her choice. Those two spoons started me off. When my foods
class took a field trip to a Charlotte department store, I saw this
bone-white china and knew it was what I wanted to go with my
silver. Although later at college I looked at other patterns, none
ever appealed to me as much as my first selection.

‘““Be sure your husband likes the patterns you choose,’ Mary
Lynn’s letter continues. ““Then he will also enjoy helping you do
the dishes!”

Mary Lynn found her own advice easy enough to follow, since by
high-school-graduation time she was already dating her future hus-
band, and by the following Christmas knew they were going to marry.
“But I made the final decision on my crystal only one week before I
sent out my wedding invitations! I selected it because it was the least
expensive fine crystal with a platinum band that I could find.”

Here is Mary Lynn’s youthfully appealing menu, and a recipe:

MENU
Ginger Ale and Grapefruit Juice
Oven-Baked Chicken Quarters—Sweet-Potato Casserole
Broccoli Spears with Browned Butter
Strawberry Heart Salad—Mayonnaise
Ice Cream with Chocolate Sauce

Poundcake—Coffee

STRAWBERRY HEART SALAD

Add 2 cups hot water to 1 package strawberry-flavored gelatin. Soften 2

teaspoons unflavored gelatin in strained juice of 2 lemons. Add to straw-
berry-flavored gelatin and stir until all gelatin is dissolved. Cool. Stir in
2 packages frozen whole strawberries, thawed. Spoon into 12 heart-shaped

molds. Chill until set. Turn out on lettuce and serve with mayonnaise.

STUART

—————eeeeeeeeeeeee

“J WANT A

TRADITIONAL WEDDING”
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 71

in casual, smart clothes and viewed from a
certain angle, Mary Lynn was enough like
Mrs. Kennedy to cause perfect strangers to
stop her on the street.

The real furor developed after several of
Mary Lynn’s classmates at Meredith College
decided she deserved national publicity, and
notified the college publicity office. Soon
thereafter, a picture story ran in the Raleigh
News, was picked up by newspapers across the
country and abroad. Mary Lynn was deluged
with fan mail. “I’m not bad-looking, six feet
tall, blue eyes, like hunting, water skiing and
Hemingway,” wrote a prospective swain. A
guitar-playing song writer dedicated one of
his songs to her, and a homesick G.I. in
Ethiopia wanted to be her pen pal.

How did Mary Lynn feel about all this at-
tention? ‘Well, I wasn’t real sure at first,” she
said. She was sure that she resented people’s
assuming that she had adopted the “Jackie
Look” deliberately: ‘““Why, I always wore my
hair bouffant, and I always dressed simply!”
Very soon she decided to be flattered—‘‘any-
one would enjoy being compared to Mrs.
Kennedy!”*—and was delighted at the out-
come of the election.

She was not pleased, however, when one
newspaper cast Dan in the role of jealous
fiancé. “Dan was completely understanding
about the letters I got from boys,”’ she said—
and indeed he had written gallantly from At-
lanta, “I’m just glad that so many people can
enjoy looking at such a beautiful girl.’’ He also
agreed to let her accept one of the modeling
jobs she was offered.

But Mary Lynn’s heart was set on home
economics. She adored living in the Practice
House at Meredith, where as hostess she was
asked to feed five girls on 85 cents per girl per
day, managed to get through the week on $19.
Returning home last summer after her gradua-
tion, she announced to her mother that she
was going to take over the family cooking.
But her father’s bland, low-cholesterol diet
proved tricky, and David and Douglas threw
her finances off by eating as a midafternoon
snack what she had planned to have for sup-
per. There wasn’t much time, anyway; after
all, she had a wedding to plan!

In the years of their engagement, Mary
Lynn and Dan had talked about every con-
ceivable kind of wedding. Since Mary Lynn
alone had 65 relatives living in the Charlotte
area, a ‘small’? wedding was out of the ques-
tion; they decided to mail invitations to a
maximum of 500 friends and relatives, of
which 300 were expected to attend.

“Think of all the presents we’ll get!’ cried
Mary Lynn ingenuously, as thrilled by the
prospect of unwrapping lots of frilly packages
and recording the gifts and donors in her white
satin bride’s book as by the presents per se.
(As a treat, Dan used to bring her a dollar’s
worth of gum and penny candy, each piece
wrapped separately.) The sun porch where
Dan usually slept when he came for weekends
was cleared of furniture early in the summer,
and devoted solely to the display of Mary
Lynn’s shower and wedding gifts, which ar-
rived at a staggering pace.

Prope in Charlotte love to entertain, and
Mary Lynn was given four showers—one for
college friends, one for family, one for church
friends, and one for girls Mary Lynn had
known in high school. In addition, there were
five luncheons, a bridge party, a rehearsal
party given by the Morrills, and the brides-
maids’ luncheon given by the matron of honor
(Dan’s sister-in-law) and her mother.

With so many parties scheduled, Mary Lynn
was more concerned with clothes to wear be-
fore the wedding than with a trousseau to take
on the honeymoon—especially since she and
Dan planned nothing more formal than a lei-
surely drive through the mountains to their
apartment in Atlanta. Astute buying provided
her with a well-rounded, inexpensive ward-
robe. (As her mother had predicted, Mary
Lynn was going easy with the $700 her father
had set aside for her wedding.) In her bride’s
book she listed under Trousseau:

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

1. Going-away suit, hot pink—$8.50 afl
(reduced from $13)
2. Going-away hat, pink with veil—$1.00 rk
(reduced from $4) tc
3. White, green and black dress—$13.50 Al
(reduced from $19) et
4. White cotton with embroidery—$4.00 A?
(reduced from $9.00) Mt)

5. Green polished cotton—$5.00
(reduced from $10)

6. Green dress with rickrack
(made myself) $1.50

7. Hot-pink bra—$1.50
8. White high heels—$2.87
(reduced from $6)
9. White lace bra—$2.00
10. White gown and peignoir—$6.00
11. Gifts: turquoise nylon gown re
pink gown and robe |
gown with beige lace
blue slip and pants

12. Lent by friend:

2 dresses
1 cocktail dress
1 bag 4
| Ih
These clothes, with those she already had on | i

hand “in good condition,” would easily take
her through the prenuptial parties, honey- J”

moon and the first months of teaching. A
“Thank goodness I have lots of pretty aprons,” :
she said. “Home-ec students always notice }*
aprons first thing.” r

)
The largest single expenditure for the wed- fo
ding was the $150 caterer’s fee for the recep- u
tion, a special rate offered them by Mrs. | FE
Schoof, a church hostess who does catering |")
occasionally for friends. The fee included serv- }"
ice (two butlers and a maid), a masterful fruit | i
punch with an elegant ice ring of lemon and i
lime slices, petits fours, pulled butter mints
and home-toasted pecans. Mary Lynn’s aunt, Me
Louise Caldwell, offered to make the wedding 4
cake “‘as a labor of love,” and an artistic

friend, Libby Wilson, volunteered to decorate |
the refreshment tables. The rental company |*
where Doug had a summer job provided the }'*
Caldwells with silver punch bowl and cups, |
plates, silver serving dishes and candelabra—

all free of charge. Even adding in $76.75 spent 9"

for invitations, $20 for stamps and the $75 }™
anticipated for flowers, Mary Lynn’s re- \.

ception would cost only a little over $325.

A real stroke of luck was finding the wed- i
ding dress of her dreams at almost the first |
place she looked. Determined to wear satin }”
despite the anticipated heat of August, Mary }
Lynn brought home a lovely gown of heavy }'*
white satin with a becoming bateau neckline, | a
a chapel train, and a mantilla veil of illusion
and lace. (Total cost: $119.85.) When she ff
tried it on, David and Doug teased her about *'
the interminable rows of buttons, but any-
body could see they were impressed.

In the middle of July Dan packed a small |"
rented trailer with odds and ends of furniture j}®
from the Morrills’ attic in Winston-Salem, j*'
the Caldwells’ in Charlotte, and drove it down fi
to Atlanta. Most of the pieces were to be: hy,

j ck

How the Caldwells F

‘

Spent $700 for the Wedding i \
Reception—caterer’s fee, including a te
service, food, punch. . $150.00 |e,
Invitations, for 500. 76.75 |i

Stamps (for invitations and Ne
thank-you notes). 35.00

Wedding dress. 82.35 i
Veil 37.50 | fm
Flowers. 76.99 Fy kl
Photographs. 75.00} |"
Bridesmaids’ gifts 35.00 3
Music See 10.00 tin
Other clothes, incidentals . 85.87} |
Janitor and sexton’s fees 10.00) |
Mother’s dress. 25.10: | ;

$700.21) |,

| EB RUARY, 1962

eturned eventually, but Mary Lynn and Dan
vanted to buy their own furniture carefully;
‘in the meanwhile they needed to fi!l up the
arge (14’ x 18’) living room, bedroom and
itchen of their apartment.
| Apartments were scarce and rents high in
hat area, so Dan was pleased to find this one
‘or $70 a month, even though he had to sign a
July 1 lease to get it. His National Defense
}cholarship provided $2200 a year, plus $400
xtra for his wife (he would be allowed $400
more if he and Mary Lynn should have a
aby). Since Mary Lynn would be earning
34300 teaching home economics and history in
Briarcliff High School, she and Dan antici-
pated no difficulty in surviving on the total of
56900. In fact, after deducting taxes and basic
*xpenses such as school fees ($900), rent
$840), food ($850-$900), utilities (including
zas heat, $160), they expected to save $1700
br even more.

| “We'll be in good shape unless the car
oreaks down—or a baby comes,” Dan ven-
tured. (They want to have children, at least
Jour; but not right away. As for the car, it is a
'55 model with 100,000 miles and a limited
‘ife expectancy.)

| “But we’re cutting corners so close,’ Mary
Lynn reminded, “that I’m not kidding when I
say we can’t afford to have the car cleaned if
,. |Douggie and David soap up the windows and
_}paint ‘Just Married’ on the back!”
| But the twins, models of behavior all sum-
‘Jmer, seemed far more inclined to help their
sister than to harass her. On the verge of going
loff to college (David to St. Andrew’s for a
major in business, Douglas to Pfeiffer to study
_|for the ministry), perhaps the boys realized
that Mary Lynn’s wedding presaged a more
zomplete separation of the family. David
stayed close to home all summer to help his
mother paint the house and generally prepare
for the wedding; Doug, rushing in late from a
yaard day at United Rent-All, invariably
stopped off in the sun porch to gloat over
Mary Lynn’s newest gifts before cleaning up
for supper.

The overwhelming list of close to 400 pres-
2nts included: a complete silver service for
zight, 2 fifty-piece services in stainless steel,
a complete set of “everyday” china and a
nearly complete set of Bavarian china, “every-
day” glassware for eight, 17 pieces of fine
crystal, a mahogany dining-room suite, a
« ound table with 4 matching chairs, a mosaic
_jcoffee table, 12 place-mat sets with napkins, 4
tablecloths with napkins, 5 kitchen towels and
\ dishcloths, 45 bath towels, 17 crystal or silver
bowls or compotes, 5 vases and 3 figurines, 48
pillowcases, 11 sheets and 7 blankets, 4 coffee-
_|pots (one electric), 4 frying pans (2 electric),
a teapot, 3 silver platters, a set of kitchen
knives, 4 cookbooks, 3 clocks and 3 lamps, 2
‘|candleholders, 4 salad-bowl sets, 7 aprons and
a lazy Susan, 4 salt-and-pepper sets, a sugar
and creamer, 3 pictures, 2 planters, an oven-
_|fefrjgerator-freezer set, a sandwich grill, a
Dutch oven, assorted pots and pans, a large
variety of miscellaneous glassware, measuring
cups, strainers and peelers, a meat thermom-
eter, a cookie-and-pastry press, a bun warmer
and 4 straw baskets, an electric iron, a mail-
box, book ends and Leaves of Gold, 2 ice
buckets, 7 ashtrays, 10 service trays, 2 sets of
steak knives, a poem, several substantial
checks, and a 4300-mile trip to Canada—
‘taken, with the parents of the groom, the pre-
‘vious summer.

~~ &

—
7 oe =

ops ew

Mar Lynn had deliberately kept the week
before her wedding as free as possible; even so,
j|the atmosphere of excitement increased until
; Duchess, the affectionate family collie, began
» |to catch the fever and pranced about, waving
her plumy tail and being commendably toler-
’ ant of strange visitors she would ordinarily
) have chased away. Mary Lynn was a little con-
) cerned about her father, who had been in poor
) health, but her mother reassured her: ‘“‘Don’t
) worry—he’s thoroughly enjoying all the fun.
'f he gets tired, he’ll just go into his room and
shut the door; he knows how to take care of
)|himself.”” What concerned Mrs. Caldwell was
7\the weather. Which would be worse—for
0 Mary Lynn to wilt from the heat in her satin
.|dress, or for rain to spoil the reception?
/| The day before the wedding a constant
||stream of visitors kept the screen door slam-

ming, the big hassock fan whirring. Many
brought home-grown tomatoes, Lima beans,
cucumbers, cookies and poundcake. These
offerings Mrs. Caldwell accepted gratefully—
out-of-town guests would be arriving later in
such quantities, and at such unpredictable
times, that planning a formal meal was hope-
less. She had ordered an enormous ham espe-
cially cooked and sliced; the home-grown veg-
etables would supplement this nicely! All
afternoon Mamie, the Caldwells’ part-time
maid, was kept busy shelling beans, slicing to-
matoes, spreading husky sandwiches, and
pouring Out quantities of minty iced tea. At
about six Mrs. Caldwell gathered up some
eight or ten guests and took them off to a
nearby cafeteria for supper, leaving latecom-
ers to fend for themselves. Mr. Caldwell, step-
ping rather gingerly around people and plat-
ters of food in the crowded kitchen, succeeded
in broiling his own meat patty and slipped out
onto the cool back porch to eat in relative
quiet.

5
Gradually, the wedding party collected at
the Little Church on the Lane for the re-
hearsal; by eight o’clock, they were lined up to
march in. First the ushers: David and Douglas,
looking unusually serious; Dan’s brother Jim;
his college roommate, Marcus Lawrence. Then
the maid of honor, Mary Lynn’s college room-
mate, Martha Biles; and Jim Morrill’s wife
Carolyn as matron of honor. (Mary Lynn and
Dan had introduced Jim and Carolyn, had
been in their wedding just a year before.) Next,
three pretty bridesmaids—a cousin and two
college friends. After that came three more
young cousins as junior bridesmaids. And
now it was time for Mary Lynn and her father.

But the ripple of unease that had been
spreading through the church now burst out
openly. The organ broke off; the bridal party
halted, whispering. A bridesmaid giggled.
From the front pew, where Mrs. Caldwell sat
with Mrs. Morrill and Aunt Thelma, came a
distressed cry: ““What is that music?”

Dan and Mary Lynn had made a “‘deal”’: he
would walk out to Mendelssohn’s traditional
wedding march, if she would walk in to
Musorgski. The music was the promenade
from Pictures at an Exhibition—undeniably
stately, but dissonant, polyrhythmic, and
quite different from the familiar Lohengrin.

“It sounds like a bunch of Cossacks rid-
ing!” objected someone.

‘““That’s an army march, not a bridal proces-
sion!”

“Seems as though, since we’ve been waiting
for years to see you two get married, you
could at least get married to happy music!”

For a moment there was near pandemo-
nium; then Dan, standing near the altar with
his father, capitulated. “It doesn’t matter.
Play Bach. Play Purcell. Play Lohengrin. It
was just an idea.”

And so the organist put aside Musorgski
and launched into the familiar Lohengrin.
Mary Lynn and her father proceeded down
the aisle. Aunt Thelma, exchanging a relieved
smile with Mary Lynn’s mother and Dan’s,
remarked, ““Here Comes the Bride may be
trite, but at least we know what it means.”

After that, Bishop Spaugh moved the re-
hearsal along briskly, and soon the wedding
party, relatives and close friends piled into
cars and headed, sixty strong, for the nearby
Kirkwood Room where the Morrills were
hosts at an elegant party. Guests exclaimed
over the magnificent centerpiece of fresh fruit,
helped themselves to dainty sandwiches,
cheese rings, coconut balls and miniature wed-
ding cake. Some drifted out onto the lantern-
lit terrace even though it had been raining
hard, and the night was windy and damp.
“Don’t tell the Caldwells,” confided Kitty
Johnson, the assistant minister’s wife, to an
out-of-town guest, “but the downpour this
afternoon flooded the church basement, where
they were to have the reception in case of rain
tomorrow! If it does rain, I don’t know what
we'll do.”’ But when Dan drove Mary Lynn
home a little later, there were a few stars out.

Mary Lynn was too keyed up to sleep much
that night, and was up early, unable to eat any
breakfast but green grapes and saltines. She
took one of the “nerve pills’ her doctor had
prescribed, and generously passed them
around among her family. Duchess’s barking

NEW RECIPE IDEA

Macaroni’n’ Beef
Western

tay

MACARONI 'N’ BEEF
WESTERN STYLE

Easy, one-dish dinner
with robust, beefy flavor

The smooth golden cheese sauce in FRANCO-AMERICAN
Macaroni is given a hearty Western-type flavor by adding
ground beef and plump tomatoes. Here’s a robust dish that

is just the thing for man-sized
appetites and takes just minutes
to make.

1 pound ground Ye teaspoon basil

beef 2 cans Franco-
VY cup chopped American
onion Macaroni

1 teaspoon salt 1 can (1 pound)

tomatoes,
drained

Ye teaspoon
pepper

In skillet, cook beef, onion, salt,
pepper, and basil until meat is
brown and onion is tender; stir to
separate meat particles. Add mac-
aroni and tomatoes. Heat, stirring
now and then. 4 to 6 servings.

FRANCO-

MACARONI WITH CHEESE SAUCE

FRANCO-AMERICAN IS A TRADEMARK OF

SOUP COMPANY

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announced the ten-o’clock mail delivery with
piles of presents; Mary Lynn, wielding a large
kitchen knife, ripped open wrappers with the
happy fervor that invariably caused amuse-
ment: ‘‘Nobody likes to open presents the way
Mary Lynn does!”

At noon, dressed in a smart, bold-patterned
silk sheath and perky hat, Mary Lynn set off
with her mother for the bridesmaids’ lunch-
eon, given by Carolyn Morrill and her mother
for the bridesmaids, Aunt Thelma and Dan’s
two grandmothers. Although she still ap-
peared a little nervous, she ate some of the
tempting food, smiled over the bridesmaids’
appreciation of her gifts to them (small silver
crosses and silver-plated Revere bowls cen-
tered with gay artificial flowers). Coming out-
side after the luncheon, she was cheered to see
that the sun had burst forth. Suddenly four-
thirty seemed too long to wait!

Everyone agreed that it was a lovely, happy
wedding. The bridesmaids, in frothy mint
green and pale yellow, couldn’t help smiling.
Douglas and David, handsome in their white
jackets, watched their sister with open admira-
tion as, ethereal and starry-eyed, she drifted
down the aisle on her father’s arm. Dan, calm
and expectant beside his distinguished-looking
father, gave a quick smile to his mother before
he moved forward to meet his bride at the
altar. Mrs. Caldwell was a little misty-eyed
when her husband placed Mary Lynn’s hand
in Dan’s, and later when Bishop Spaugh, pro-
nouncing the familiar words, seemed to give
them fresh meaning. But she was smiling when
the joyous notes of Mendelssohn’s wedding
march rang out.

The sun was shining mildly by the time the
receiving line formed on the velvety lawn out-
side the church, and the rain-washed scene
looked rather like an Impressionist water-

color—men in light summer suits and women
in lacy frocks and flowery hats moving along
the line of bouffant-skirted bridesmaids to-
ward the punch tables, decorated with gauzy
nylon net over mint-green cloths, festooned
with ribbons and flowers, and covered gleam-
ing trays of mints and cakes and nuts. Aunt
Louise’s cake,
delicacy, rose splendidly above a small tulle-
swathed table. (David, who had made the
lazy Susan on which the cake rested, was dis-
appointed to find it completely hidden by rib-
bons and Shasta daisies.)

Whe Lynn, who had not been sure she
would last long enough to shake hands with
all the wedding guests, found that she could
hardly bear for it to be over. After all, she was
saying farewell to as well as greeting her
friends; some of them she might not see for
a long time.

Embracing a close friend who had shared
the woes and wonders of living in the Prac-
tice House, she felt momentarily on the verge
of tears. The next instant she was smiling
brilliantly at an attractive woman in a broad-
brimmed hat. “Dan, this is Mrs. Abernethy,
who gave us that marvelous electric broiler
and had that wonderful bridge party and
‘everyday’ shower.”

Suddenly it was time to cut the cake, and
from then on all was a whirl of confusion—
her mother reminding her that she was to
dress in the church, her brothers and Marcus
huddled together in a last-minute effort to
learn where Dan’s car was hidden, her brides-
maids clustered at the foot of the church steps
with hands outthrust for her bouquet. She
hesitated, flung it wide, and laughed at Betty
Lou’s spectacular catch. Then she hurried in-
side to dress.

a five-tiered masterpiece of

LADIES' HOME JOURNAL#H

At the bottom of the steps, the guests gath-
ered to wait for the bride and groom to re-
appear. The junior bridesmaids passed around
straw baskets filled with rice. Nobody had
been able to find Dan’s car, parked on one o}
the tree-shaded side streets near the church,
but the little Volkswagen which was waiting:
to drive them to the getaway car did not es-
cape being decorated with a Just Married
sign. Just when it seemed they were never com-
ing out someone shouted, ““There they are!”
and Mary Lynn and Dan were running down
the church steps, hand in hand, laughing and
calling good-byes and ducking hopelessly to¥
escape the pelting rice.

The next instant, they were in the little
Volkswagen and gone.

A wedding dreamed about for a lifetime ; om

and over so soon. Mrs. Caldwell, coming. .
: KS
slowly down the church steps with her daugh=¥,

; ; Scar a aunt cae Be
ters wedding dress folded carefully inher -
arms, nodded good-bye to the last guests, F,
realized with surprise that it was just after six. Z

‘@

How quickly the time had gone! And was it]

worth while—all the planning
and expense?

Mary Lynn,
asked to define what she was looking for in
marriage. “We won't be rich,”
promptly. “Professors don’t get rich. Our
main goals are happiness and a family.”

Mrs. Caldwell, walking up the sun- dappled
sidewalk of Moravian Lane, toward the car
where her husband and her sons were waiting
to drive her home, could take pleasure in the
conviction that her daughter was launching
out into marriage with a fine hustand, a full,
interesting year ahead, and a wedding she
could remember with pleasure the rest of her | |
life.

and shopping ™

SHAPING THE ’60’S
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 66

One 24-year-old from the East said her man
was “‘very ethical, a fine family man, perhaps
even too sacrificial. His faults? He doesn’t
read enough. He doesn’t exercise at all—he’ll
have a coronary from rolling down the car
window someday. He’s stodgier than I thought
he'd!'be:””

A 22-year-old daughter of the South was
annoyed that her husband “‘continually looked
at other women.” But she was forgiving: “All
in all, though, he does have a sweet way about
him which makes me love him ever more.”
And completely admiring, an Illinois wife said,
“My husband is much more thoughtful than I
thought he would be; he never forgets special
days.”

One in three wives, in fact, could find noth-
ing unfavorable about their husbands after
they were married. Close to 40 percent re-
ported their mates were “even better, kinder,
more thoughtful” than they ever thought they
would be. From a delighted Floridian, ““Ex-
ceptionally understanding with me, especially
about sexual relations.” A 19-year-old bride,
“T didn’t realize he would be so easygoing and
affectionate.” And a young wife from New
Mexico discovered in marriage “what a truly
wonderful person my husband was.”

( Nee spouses pleased their wives with their
maturity, ability and intelligence. Not a few
said their men were wonderful husbands, were
helpful around the house. To the delight of 60
percent of our brides, their grooms turned out
to be more attentive than they had expected,
more affectionate, more companionable.

Those who were disappointed in their mates
found them selfish, self-centered, jealous or
| immature.

“He is really just an overgrown baby,” a
Cincinnati girl said of her husband. “Com-
pletely helpless’’—a 22-year-old from Wash-
ington. And a young Michigan wife charged
her husband with “Lack of consideration. In-
ability to give sympathy. A feeling of inferior-
ity. Complete disregard for finances.”

Many said their husbands neglected them,
either going out without them (golf widows)
or staying home without them (television wid-
ows). Several wives complained of their mates’
sloppiness, fussiness stubbornness. “He

doesn’t hang up his clothes or pick up his
shoes,” said a 22-year-old Wisconsin wife. A
Massachusetts girl complained, ‘“‘He never
shaves on vacation; there’s no order to his
personal effects.”

There was frequent disappointment in their
husbands’ potential for success: ‘“‘He has
never found a job he likes.” “He doesn’t
seem to have quite the drive I thought he had.”’

Others found their husbands more frugal,
less intelligent or more dull than they ever
thought possible.

Less-usual problems, but no less annoying,
were: ‘I wasn’t aware that he disliked so many
foods.” ‘He drives too fast.” “Doesn't
brush his teeth, doesn’t shine his shoes.”
““My husband drinks much more than I had
ever dreamed.” “Does not like to try new
dishes.”

In-law problems slipped into the comments
often: “I never realized he was so close to his
family and that he would spend every night
and every weekend with them.” And a Florida
wife: “His parents still have so much influence
over him.”

More intimate problems: “Our sexual life is
disappointing. When I want to make love,
he’s too tired; when he wants to make love, I
have to.”

LOVE IN MARRIAGE

Young people. they said, are well advised to
avoid any “sexual experimentation” before
marriage, although they were somewhat more
permissive with boys than with girls; 57 per-
cent would counsel daughters against such re-
lations, but only 38 percent would instruct
sons to abstain.

“We will tell our children,’ a California
woman said, “that their female and male organs
were given them by God for a very special and
wonderful purpose, to reproduce.”’ A 22-year-
old said, ““I would tell my son that the number
of ‘conquests’ isn’t a means to measure his
manhood.” And a New England wife: “‘It
only brings fear of discovery, guilt and dissat-
isfaction. The most wonderful part of mar-
riage is discovering the wonders of lovemaking
with your lifelong chosen mate.”

About one young woman in four would ex-
plain the dangers and problems of sexual rela-
tions before marriage without expressing dis-
approval. “I'd show her the advantage of
choosing right over wrong and then trust her,”

a young woman said. Another mother would
tell her son,

while in college, had beet!

she said |

Bu,

“You may end up marrying a girl fore

you don’t want with a baby that you don’t fat:

want.”

void

Relatively few said they would leave the de- im
cision entirely up to their sons and daughters— fat

or to books, the family doctor or the minister.
One said, **

information on teenagers. They should have

Fe
I don’t think you should spring sex }io

had education on the subject gradually since qd

the age of three. Also, a loving atmosphere at

00k

home helps them to understand how love and Iki

sex are combined.”

Ones would set few limitations: “It’s all Mho

right as long as he’s smart enough not to have 40u:
relations with any girl who was innocent or hat

dirty.” And one young wife said, “I really |
believe it’s better for the man to have had _
experience before marriage.”” Another: “If my —
daughter had relations with a man she planned ;
to marry, I wouldn’t want to know about it.”

Many divided the responsibility for sex in-
struction: “‘I’d let his dad speak to him when
the time comes, but I would explain the girl’s
viewpoint to my son.”

FOR RICHER OR POORER

Money, too, is one of the better-or-worse
facts of marital existence. At the very least, it
is a source of conversation, if not a source of.
controversy.

Most of our young wives have avoided mak- |
ing money a major issue in their marriages by j

following a budget.
“Before we buy anything, we talk it over.
We don’t try to keep up with the Joneses.”
Some get off easy: ‘I let my husband han-
dle the money.” But almost as many wives

A Michigan bride said, ©

handle it entirely themselves too. ‘‘He is ae

sponsible, so I take care of the money,”
Missouri wife said. And still another wise
wife: “I handle all the money. He gets an
ailowance.”’

Other systems: Calm Discussion, Equal
Responsibility (“Each his own’’). “Money
doesn’t go as far as I thought it would,” a
young wife from the Southwest said. “Duties —
and responsibilities are harder bosses than my —
parents ever were.”

;

Three percent had no problems and no
budget (“We don’t quarrel, but we don’t han-
dle our money very well either”). Two per-
cent said, “There is nothing left after bills to

i
}
,

q JEBRUARY, 1962

|
ght over.”” Whatever the system, if any, three
ut of four of our wives endors,.d the joint

ecking account.

Few (only 28 percent) saia more money
, yould make their marriage happier. And al-
host none would have married a rich man she
idn’t love as much as her husband.

i
NOES SHE FEEL PRETTY?
am

, | Because they have “‘less time” since they
narried, many of our young ladies give less
tention to their personal appearance. Typi-

4 a 27-year-old Georgia peach said, “‘I

i vave much less time and actually need much
hore now.”

) Still, 40 percent say they actually spend
ore time now on their appearance than they
hid when they were single. The reasons gener-
ly offered: “To keep my husband inter-

sted’. . . “to make my family proud of my

)oks.”

“Being married is no excuse for a sloppy

ppearance,” a 22-year-old New Jersey wife

aid. “I buy better clothes, but less than I used
b.” A Chicago wife: “Since ’ve married, I

Jave learned more about cosmetics and fash-
bns.” And a young woman from Albuquerque:

ii have more money now for clothes and

osmetics.”

(

ost of them give more attention to their
air, first of all, and have more beauty treat-
nts since they’ve married. A number said
ney buy better clothes—more expensive, more
| ylish—and they buy more and better cosmet-
pS.

More than 40 percent of those who give
ss attention to their personal appearance
eglect their hair mainly; secondly, they are
ot as neat, not as fashionable. A 19-year-old
m Pittsburgh said, “I give less attention
yecause it is not as important as it was when I
vas single.”

Nineteen percent say they do not use cos-
‘Jhetics well. More single women than married,
‘Jor example, use eye makeup—mascara, liner
ind shadow. Both married and single women
old us they use more makeup on special
Pccasions than they use daily. Only 9 per-
Jent of our young wives use eye shadow
f ery day, whereas nearly 50 percent use
f ; on an evening out.

‘| Almost half of these young women con-
‘)lude that they don’t make the most of their
/ypoks and eagerly seek help and advice. Like
\Jheir single sisters, they rely overwhelmingly
n magazines for beauty tips.

| Are they still interested in attracting men?
)yhough married, 28 percent answered a re-
ounding, ““Yes!’’ But they added promptly
at “it was all in fun... not serious... just

for kicks.” Only 5 percent thought their hus-
bands would mind or object.

WHAT’S COOKING?

Certainly, the culinary arts have been en-
hanced with marriage, if you accept the evalu-
ation of these young wives. Half rated them-
selves above average to excellent cooks even
before they were married; after, no less than
97 percent said they were above average to
excellent.

Not untypical, a 19-year-old Missouri girl
said, “When I first got married, I hated cook-
ing; since then, I have learned to enjoy it very
much.” And she added happily, “My husband
will eat just about anything and so will I.”

Men seem to be less willing to try new dishes,
less likely to enjoy highly seasoned recipes
than their wives. Most prefer some version of
roast beef, steak or pork, in that order.

A Pennsylvania wife was pleased to tell us,
““He is very tolerant of my experiments.” A
22-year-old brought up in the Southern tradi-
tion said, “I usually try some new dish every
two or three weeks. Then if my husband likes
it, I prepare it regularly.”

Over and over again, women expressed sur-
prise and pleasure in cooking: “Cooking is a
joy to me,” said a 27-year-old, “‘and I don’t
think it could become a bore since there is
always something new to try.”

“T love to cook,” an Indiana girl said, “‘and
my husband loves to eat.” Several said, “I
think he thinks I’m a better cook than he
thought I would be.’ A small-town Iowa wife:
“Now that I’m married and cooking for my
own husband, I find that food tastes a lot bet-
ter than it ever did before.”

And the highest compliment a man can pay
his wife: ““My husband has often told me that
I cook better than his mother.”

Our young marrieds felt they were better
housekeepers than they were cooks before
marriage, but improvement after was not
quite as notable: 67 percent judged they were
already above average or better housekeepers
when they were single; 94 percent promoted
themselves to that classification after. And
most viewed being a good housekeeper a
greater asset to a happy home than being a
good cook.

One of the more surprising discoveries was
the number of husbands who help their wives
cook and clean house. Over a third of the men
(38 percent) help with the cooking and close
to half (42 percent) pitch in on house cleaning.

MORE OR LESS RELIGIOUS?

Though these young women profess to be
more religious than they were before they
married, they attend church less often now.

Religious practices in the home are limited to
saying grace at meals—and few husbands and
wives do that (about four out of ten).

Only one family in six reads the Bible regu-
larly. Still, over 90 percent endorse a strict
ethical code, believing their happiness depends
on it.

“IT think a high moral code is absolutely
essential to form any sort of a decent founda-
tion for a solid marriage and proper atmos-
phere to raise children,’ said a 24-year-old
Missourian.

A more unusual response: “I do not equate
honesty and a strict ethical code with organ-
ized religion. Historically, they have been

125

found absolutely essential.”” A New Jersey
wife considered these standards highly flexible:
“T think the ability to change with changing
standards of honesty and ethics is more impor-
tant than a strict code.”

Most agreed with a New York girl, 20 years
old: “If you cannot be honest with yourself
and your husband, you cannot have a happy
marriage. Without some code of ethics, there
is no way to guide yourself or your children.”

And just how young American wives who are
now mothers conduct their lives and guide their
children is the subject of the Journal’s next
exclusive Gallup survey of The Woman’s Mind.

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

WHAT
THE BRIDE
SHOULD KNOW ABOUT
BUYING

By SIDNEY MARGOLIUS

Consultant on Family Finances of the Family Service Association of America

The day Mary Lynn married Dan Morrill (see page 68) she undertook,
among other responsibilities, the management of half a million dollars.

That’s how much a college-educated couple normally can expect to earn in a%_ nh
lifetime. And Mary Lynn, whose knowledge of values is amazing even for a #}..

graduate home economist, will undoubtedly succeed in buying at least
$600,000 worth of goods for her $500,000.

The way newlyweds handle their money can influence their whole financial
future. If both are working, they have an excellent chance to accumulate
some family capital—a chance they won’t have soon again.

The Morrills’ basic budget of about $280 a month (after deducting taxes
and Dan’s tuition) leaves $2000 a year for their special furniture fund and
other savings. Other couples, for various reasons, may not be able to achieve
so modest a living expense or hatch so big a nest egg. For one thing, Atlanta
is a relatively low-cost town. In another city, the Morrills’ budget might be
as much as $40 higher. (See chart.)

The Morrills have a maid twice a month, entertain, have meals out occa-
sionally, run a car, and are buying furniture of good quality. Here are some
of their moneysaving skills:

Supermarket strategy. In most parts of the country, a bride who keeps her
food bill under $80 a month can consider this expense mastered. Mary Lynn
spends about $71 a month for food and cleaning supplies, and this is how
she does it:

She plans menus a week in advance, using seasonally abundant meats of-
fered as “‘specials.’’ She uses meat moderately —a half pound of lean chopped
beef for two. Her frequent use of fried chicken exploits one of the best cur-
rent bargains: modern growing methods have enlarged supplies of broiler-
fryers and made them a supermarket “‘leader’’ often sold at or near whole-
sale cost.

She watches for canned-goods sales, then stocks up on these items. She
bought a whole case of tomatoes at 10 cents a can, used them in casseroles,
chili, spaghetti.

For cooking, she uses grades B and C. She buys asparagus for its attractive
appearance only if planning to serve it by itself; in a casserole she would
use the cheaper cut pieces.

She ‘‘stretches” costly foods. For example, she mixes whole milk with re-
constituted nonfat milk to make “half and half.’’ (The dry milk makes non-
fat fluid milk for 8 cents a quart.) Mary Lynn’s half-and-half blend has excel-
lent flavor and as much protein, minerals and vitamins as regular milk.
Nonfat-milk powder can well be the working bride’s best friend in making
low-cost, high-protein soups, omelets, custards and baked dishes.

She buys the large sizes of foods, cleaning supplies and toiletries; takes ad-
vantage of all the “‘cents off”’ offers on soaps and detergents. (Savings on large
sizes average about 14 per cent.)

She avoids expensive desserts that can so easily wreck a budget, looks in-
stead for low-cost desserts (ice milk at 29-39 cents a quart) and bakes her
own cakes.

A government study reports that working wives usually feed their families
nourishing meals but spend more for convenient, quick-cooking foods than
full-time homemakers. The Morrills save time without undue extra expense
by preparing a roast or ham large enough to last for several meals, by serving
fewer but larger courses, by shopping together once a week, by eating at a
moderate-price restaurant if both are busy—as during exam week.

Shopping for sales. The Morrills’ clothing expense is $17.50 a month, com- ;

paring most favorably with the $25-30 considered reasonable for a young
couple. Of course Dan’s campus needs are less demanding than those of a

400

young husband in business or professional work. Besides, Mary Lynn is an “}.,_

expert at planning wardrobes and finding values.

BUDGET FOR A NEWLYWED COUPLE

(Here are monthly costs of the Morrills’ basic budget in different cities*)

Houstonts 4 4 cee Gen. 2 o200, = Niinneapolis ‘a > ee $310
NMilantay 095. ee ee en 200:. “Pittsburgh: 2s) ae ee eEOLO
Baltimore so. ). «eee. . . 286) —~PortlandsOregon 2.) eee
Philadelphia <).5). Si a). -1..294 LosJAngeles = Ayaan eee
New Work. sas) &. cee 297 Sty Tsowis ee OL
Kansas(City;;Missourl: 2.8. . . 298 ‘San'Franciscom i... x ep eeR OLN
Gincinnatige eaeee 6) cette O02, Boston qae i ee Ee LO.
Detroit “ae a pe Ose aC hiCACOn seemnamm si te Mee EOS)
Cleveland’ 1, 2 see eas 2 308: {Seattle ro. ee eC OnE
Washington) DiGi. ae een US

*As estimated from Bureau of Labor Statistics data

Feder

FBRUARY, 1962

127

\She achieves variety by combining different blouses with suits and skirts,
i ghtening basic dresses with attractive accessories.

|She watches for sales. Highly selective and practiced, she can quickly scan

jack of 20 dresses and pick out just the one she knows will be becoming and

monious with her current wardrobe. Among such expertly chosen values
i: four two-piece dresses bought for $2 each; a basic black dress ($10); a

nid wool suit ($10); a summer cotton she made herself for $1.50.

A young couple can learn the technique of timing their buying to take ad-
mtage of sales. Price reductions occur in a recurring annual pattern:

rniture, TEU Sep aa ose a Feb., Aug. Dresses... April, June, Nov., Jan.

BUT CISALCS oie cra cialssiseushs May, Aug., Jan. Men’s suits March, April, Dec.

ppliances, TV sets....... June, July, Jan. New cars Aug.
, BpUSeWAFES........... Feb., Sept., Jan. Used cars After July 4th
My joes Ee EP Se ts ahve Jan., Juiy Tires May, Aug.
SMPAatS............ BE Te ies: Aug., Nov.

4 In buying furniture and other equipment, young couples often are safest
, @ sticking to middle-priced lines. This policy avoids both the possible in-
q equacies of the cheapest goods and the premium sometimes commanded
’ the costliest lines because of extra detail or exclusive styling, but not
,, geessarily better basic construction.

(For a report on how the Morrills developed an over-all decorating plan
fore starting to shop for furniture, see page 72.)

| The cost of a car. Automobile expense is one of the Morrills’ biggest bills.
Ince Dan recently had an expensive motor job done on his 1955 car, we ad-
sed keeping it a while longer. We did suggest a reduction in their auto-
; surance bill of $169—high, because Dan is under 25 and must pay the
youthful driver” rate. ;

/Besides liability insurance, Dan also had collision insurance, which pays
r any damage to his own car. The liability insurance protects against poten-

lly ruinous damage suits; it is essential. But in the case of the Morriils’

er car, collision insurance is less vital, and dropping it would save approxi-
ately $40. Uncle Sam partly insures a car owner against damage to his own
»>hicle—nonreimbursed casualty losses are tax deductible even if the acci-
ent is your own fault.
| Medical care. As a graduate student, Dan can use Emory’s medical facili-
as; through Mary Lynn, he also benefits from the board of education’s
surance program. In buying health insurance, young couples can save by
king advantage of group plans which cover the employee’s wife or husband
s well as the employee. Group enrollment saves as much as 35 per cent of the
yst of the same coverage bought solo.

In selecting a health-insurance plan, newlyweds should compare maternity
rovisions. Many plans provide only limited benefits; some, none at all. Other
fans do provide some payment for obstetric care, but require a waiting period
‘ ; nine or ten months. Mary Lynn’s plan provides for a $100 payment after
ine months.

The new breadwinner’s life insurance. Dan’s $10,000 life policy, at a cost
$11.60 a month ($149.20 a year), included double indemnity for accidental
eath. We suggested that the cost be reduced to $106 by changing to a $5000
hole-life policy with an income rider which would pay $6000 from date of
‘fsue (a total protection of $11,000), by paying the premium annually, and by
’ fropping the “double indemnity.” The cost of double indemnity would be
*fivested more wisely in additional insurance paying for death from any
use. After all, a widow doesn’t need less money if her husband dies from
-nonaccidental cause!
Under Mary Lynn’s employer’s plan, both she and Dan have a $2500 life .

licy at a cost of only $6.60 each per year. As the family grows, Dan can add New Rubberm aid Stove n Counter Mats

r
i

_p his basic life policy, at small extra costs, to provide additional protection - 7
‘br the new Morrills. ... heat-proof and handsome
| A
\ oe -=
ee
l q
»-HOW THE MORRILLS SPEND THEIR MONEY EACH MONTH
‘WHAT THEY GET
Wary Lynn’s salary . . $ 358.33
an’s fellowship grant. 216.67
$ 575.00
‘WHERE IT GOES
federal income tax . : Meee eS 44.50
PElaASCCUGIEVALAKG MEME 5 ct eh ck 10.75
Ale aI COMCRCAKGNN NaI Wr ne 06
tate sales tax (estimated). ...... 3.95
| (TOTAL TAXES) 59.76
food (including cleaning supplies) — . 71.00
Tousing (rent, $70; utilities, $7.25; phone, $6.25;
Treat CIES IO) eR Bree ee 93.50
‘Plothing (including cleaning) Be aie Oe Ps 17.50
Aedical (insurance, $8; other, $2). ane) eee ae: 10.00
War expenses (including insurance) . ........... 30.40
miitsranducontributionss 42 2 . » . amowect Kec) olla 12.25
SECLeALION speldOGICalSy aerate (S)Sils lA UE a ve ee ce ten 5.00
sersonal care (naircuts, toiletries) .s. oc... +... 6.00
*rofessional expenses (including dues, books). . . 2... . 12.00
PLeSnSULAnce wat ae Le TG Lor. 10.00
Miscellaneous (postage, tobacco, other) . . .... . 7.05 = Seeats ;
(TOTAL BASIC LIVING EXPENSES) 274.70 Stove 'n Counter Mats also ideal on built-in counters, tables, for © Rubbermaid Table ‘n Counter Mats, versatile miniatures for
Dan’s' tuition . i. ae ESET ~ Sed rbd : wh 75.00 heat-proof protection while working with hot foods, utensils. | use under hot casseroles, grills, coffee makers. Set of two, $2.79.
*urniture and other savings funds (including
teachers’ retirement payment of $21.54) . 165.54
TOTAL $ 575.00

re ner

Rute <RMAID INC., WOOSTER, OHIO « COOKSVILLE, ONTARIO

a Ee --—

128

THE
MORRILLS’

TWO-YEAR
DECORATING

PLAN

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 73

The Morrills find a copy of a canopy bed in Rich’s department store (left), and two chairs, a table to cut down for a coffee table in Atlanta Antiques Gallery.

old oil lamps or candlesticks with fixtures from the hardware
store. It provides some essentials that you don’t see, as cur-
tains for both rooms and most of the bedroom furniture. It in-
cludes the purchase of inexpensive antiques and even permits
the Morrills to buy their ‘‘sometime’”’ piece, a grandfather clock.

Since the Morrills are decorating from scratch, a difficult pros-
pect for any family, the wisest investment of all, perhaps, was a
fee for a decorator’s help in planning. The Journal invited Mrs.
Evelyn Jablow, an interior designer in New York, to assist the
Morrills in drawing up their spending plan so they can purchase
at their own speed. Even if they decide to extend their buying be-
yond two years in order to build up savings in case a baby arrives
or their car breaks down, their plan will always help them avoid
costly mistakes.

This is how the Morrills, with Mrs. Jablow’s advice, found the
answers to these universal decorating questions:

Where do you start? With the background, Mrs. Jablow says.
This means figuring out a color scheme, a project that always re-
quires compromises. Mary Lynn loves green, Dan’s favorite is
brown, but both respond to the warmth and friendliness of red.
So they plan for a clear, cheery red-and-white scheme with Mary
Lynn’s greens as accents and Dan’s browns supplied by the
warm furniture finishes.

How do you fit in everything you need? The Morrills had three
‘‘musts’’: a desk for each of them, since they each have ‘‘home-
work’’; lots of seating pieces for entertaining groups of friends;

GRAPHS BY GABRIEL BENZUR

PHOTO

and extra beds to put up visiting relatives or other guests.
The huge closets in the apartment solved the extra-bed prob-
lem easily: the Morrills will buy folding beds that can roll into
them. Dan’s desk was planned into the living room, where it can
double as a serving table for buffet suppers, the most practical
kind of mealtime entertaining in their small quarters. Mary
Lynn’s desk will be in the bedroom, part of a three-piece unit
with two chests.

By planning on small seating pieces—a love-seat-size sofa, a
settee that camouflages the closed fireplace, a pair of open arm-
chairs and two pull-up chairs—the Morrills can seat eight. The
coffee table (an old drop-leaf cut down to low height) is large
enough to double as an informal dining table for buffet parties.

What do you buy first? The things you need the most, Mrs.
Jablow counsels. For the Morrills, this means the sofa and arm-
chairs to replace the backbreaking ones they now have; a desk
for Dan, who now hunches like a giant over Mary Lynn’s old
school-days desk; and shutters for privacy. The budget below
lists the other furnishings in the suggested order of purchase.

The first item on it is a decorator’s fee of $100, since Mrs.
Jablow charges $50 for planning a room, furnishing floor and
color plans, fabric swatches and furniture pictures. Other de-
signers will do such planning at about $25 an hour. To find one,
check the local furnishings store (it will usually answer a ques-
tion or two free) or local chapters of the American Institute of
Interior Designers and the National Society of Interior Designers.

THE MORRILLS’ SHOPPING LIST FOR FURNISHINGS IN THE RECOMMENDED ORDER OF PURCHASE

LIVING ROOM

Decorator's planning fee ($50 a room).... $100.00
Love seat, 48” wide (extra charge in Mary Lynn's

choice of fabric) 119.00
2 bow-back maple chairs in muslin @ $99.00 198.00
Fabric for chairs and love seat, 5 yards @ $2.50 a yard 12.50
Antique fruitwood desk 180.00
Maple desk chair 44.00
2 wall-hung shelf units (assemble-and-stain-

yourself type), pine, @ $7.95 15.90
Antique ceiling fixture (wiring cost extra) 15.00
6 18”x80" louvered panels for 2 folding doors @ $9.99 59.94
3 tracks for folding doors @ $3.99 11.97
3 9"x36” louvered panels for two windows @ $4.10 32.80
2 folding beds for guests 40.00
Curtain fabric, 7 yards @ 75ca yard B25
Side table (assemble-and-stain-yourself type) 16.00
Hardwood settee in cherry finish 94.00
Green felt for seat cushions, 72” wide, 3 yards

(labor cost extra) $2.34 a yard 7.02
Antique fruitwood drop-leaf table, cut down to

coffee-table height 50.00
2 lamps (made from candlesticks) 15.00

Maple cupboard . 345.00
2 fruitwood rush-seat antique side chairs @ $25.00 50.00
Antique mahogany washstand 35.00
Rug, fringed acrylic fiber, latex backed, 8’x10’ 151.00
Antique iron trivet table 12.00
BEDROOM
Pair 18”x80" louvered panels for kitchen door @ $9.99 $19.98
Storage unit (not shown), composed of a dresser-

desk and 2 chests 154.00
Maple bed 164.00
Mattress and box spring 140.00
Crocheted canopy : 65.00
Maple-and-hardwood candlestand (not shown),

assemble-and-stain-yourself type ; 10.00
Lamp (made from old candlestick or oil lamp—

not shown) 10.00
Curtain fabric, 7 yards @ 75c a yard 5:25
Rug, fringed acrylic fiber, latex-backed, 8’x10’ 151.00
Pine sleigh bench (assemble-and-stain type) 10.00
Old rocker (not shown) 25.00
Clock in cherry 225.00

TOTAL $2588.61

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 28

callous, or glossing things over. He paused a

moment before Eugenie’s door to get himself

in hand completely.

When the doctor at last pushed the door
open, he was surprised to hear laughter. His
patient, entirely recovered from the anes-
thetic and propped up high on pillows, greeted
him smilingly. “Fred was reading me such a
funny story,” she said gaily. But the hand she
extended to the doctor was icy cold, and Fred
Foster’s eyes betrayed deep concern.

Before the doctor could begin his carefully
thought-out speech, Eugenie said quietly,
“It’s cancer, isn’t it? If it hadn’t been, you
would have said so as soon as you came in.”

“Yes, it is, Eugenie,’ the doctor replied as
quietly. Fred Foster made a little sound but
Eugenie’s expression did not change.

“You don’t need to mince words with Fred
and me. Is it in an incurable stage?”

“Definitely not!” the doctor said emphati-
cally, drawing a chair closer to Eugenie’s bed.
“It is not one of the more unruly types of
malignancy. It /s invasive, but it doesn’t appear
to have got very far. There is a good chance
that it is still localized, as we call it. It would
have been better, frankly, if you had sought a
specialist when the symptoms first appeared.
But it is still the sort of thing we cure in a
high percentage of cases.

“I have especially high hopes of a cure in
your case, Eugenie, because of your tempera-
ment and courage. For instance, look at the
calm way we are talking this over. So often a
conversation of this kind is a ghastly ordeal. I
have wished many times that the public could
have a clearer idea of the new philosophy
about cancer.”

Fred Foster looked up quickly. “A new
philosophy about cancer? I'd like to know
about it!”

“It is simply that we doctors, and enlight-
ened people in general, more and more are
coming to regard cancer as we do any other
dangerous or recurrent disease: tuberculosis,

for instance, or chronic heart or kidney
disease. Not as a sentence to early death,
but as something to be battled with every
weapon we have.

“In the first place, nowadays, we have a
growing percentage of complete cures, due to
earlier discovery. And the life span of ‘inop-
erables’-—those incurable under present con-
ditions—has increased a great deal. Even the
terminal phases need be no more harrowing in
most cases than those of other diseases, through
a more enlightened use of narcotics, mood
elevators, tranquilizers, and in some cases
hypnosis.

Then we have many ways of keeping a
cancer under control, when there is not a cure
for it as yet. For example, in cancer of the
breast we have found that removal of the
ovaries, sometimes of the adrenals too, may
delay the inroads of the malignancy. Certain
hormones, especially some of the corticos-
teroids, do the same thing in other types of
cancer. Chemical solutions by injection are
often helpful. There are even authenticated
cases of cancers that disappeared of their own
accord.

“IT am perfectly sincere when I urge so-
called incurable patients to hold on confi-
dently for as long as they can. There is a good
possibility that something almost miraculous
in the way of a cure may turn up almost any
time now. But all this doesn’t apply to you,
Eugenie’’—turning to his patient. ““You are
far from being in the incurable class. You are
what I call a ‘first-class risk.’ ”’

As the doctor talked, the look of taut ac-
ceptance on Eugenie’s face had been changing
to one of hope. “I suppose you will do a com-
plete hysterectomy?”

““No. For true invasive cancer of the cervix,
the kind you have, authoritative opinion to-
day is pretty solidly behind irradiation. First
with radium applied locally, and later with
deep X ray from the new, powerful cobalt
machine.”

The hope vanished from Eugenie’s face.
“Doctor, ’ve counted on you to be honest

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL!

with us!”’ she said reproachfully. ‘‘Isn’t cobalt |”

used only in the most desperate cases?”

“Far from it, Eugenie. Where it is available,
and that includes all but isolated communities
in this country, cobalt X-ray therapy repre-

mucl

sents the safest, most penetrating and effective jy 0’

technique for delivering X ray specifically to

asst

the deeper body tissues. The radium eliminates

the local cancer, the cobalt X ray takes care
of possible extension, or metastasis, to more
distant organs and glands.’ The doctor ex-
plained also that the local application of the
radium had grown into an exact science, doing
away with much of the former concern about
burns and harm to adjacent tissue. There

calm
0 2p
ans 1
ps
iifer ils

“Ine

would be some temporary inconvenience, but }y) 1

much less than from surgery. And the expengg’
should not be greater than for surgery. Thgj
Fosters again felt reassured.

The next morning, powerful capsules of }yi:

radium were placed in direct contact with the
affected area, and retained there for about
fifty hours.

Dismissing Eugenie from the hospital on
the fourth day, the doctor told her, “You are
going to feel tired and a bit depressed for a
few days. The local irradiation has that effect,
but it soon passes. You will start the deep
cobalt therapy tomorrow; it will take from
three to four weeks. Don’t worry about a
vaginal discharge or even a little temporary
bleeding. These things will be due to the treat-
ment, and they, too, will go away.

“When the cobalt treatment is ended, you'll
be able to do about anything you wish. I'll be
seeing you at decreasing intervals for at least
five years. Aside from that, Eugenie, just put
this experience behind you and go on with
your usual busy and useful life.”’

“T will, Doctor. I’m going to fight and I’m
going to be cured. I can’t tell you how much
that talk you gave Fred and me in the hospital
has helped me.”

“Well, Eugenie, in that case I guess we’re

even. You'll never know how you helped me jy

that night.”

Next month Dr. Schauffler discusses German measles in
early pregnancy.

A CONVERSATION
ON MANNERS

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 51

towels in the bathroom, the flowers you will
have. I go through my house like a hotel
manager or a mechanic, inspecting all the
rooms in which guests may find themselves.

There should be no last-minute discoveries
of something you’ve forgotten to make you
feel rushed and rattled just as people arrive. I
always allow myself time to rest and to dress
without having to hurry. There are so many
details in giving a party, but it should be en-

joyable rather than hard work. You should

never plan anything that you are not sure of
really being able to handle.

The good party begins with your guest list.
Naturally you will invite only people who are
congenial and who will interest one another.
There should be a nucleus of people who know
one another, who are friends, so that conver-
sation will be easy and there won’t be that
great strain of having to introduce everyone to
everyone else. If you live in a large city, as I
do, you should allow a fair interval between
the time for which you invited your guests and
the time you actually sit down to eat. It is nice
to have time for drinks before you are rushed
to the table because the souffle will fall or the
soup will be cold. With today’s unpredictable
traffic conditions many people who set out in
time and mean to be prompt get held up and
arrive late. Allow a good half hour.

Other rules ’'ve put down for myself (I’m
talking now about seated dinner parties):
have the plates hot; keep flowers in the center
of the table low so the guests can see one
another; play music softly (if at all) so as not
to drown out conversation.

When it is time for coffee in the next room,
don’t break a conversation or a general good
mood by leaving the table too abruptly; wait
until there is a pause and the guests are ready
to move. I’m rather nervous at every party I
give unless I know the people well, and afraid

that everything will go wrong. I don’t know of
anyone who isn’t.

Another facet of good manners I would like
to talk about is writing notes. I think it’s
almost a neglected art today. My sister and I
were brought up to write thank-you notes and
I think they are very important. Of course you
should always write a note after receiving a
present, or spending a weekend as a house
guest, but I think there are many other times
when a thank-you note is appreciated—after
a dinner party, for example. I myself have
always been in the habit of writing my host

WOMEN’S IDEA EXCHANGE

As a clue to tell which cans of food
to use first, keep a crayon handy to
mark the month and year on each

label when stocking the canned-
food shelf. It is easy to tell at a
glance which are the older foods
which should be served first.

Miss M. F.,

Jennings, Missouri.

and hostess and I am always pleased when
people are considerate enough to thank me in
this way.

It is not necessary to write a note after a
cocktail party or a small informal dinner (but
I think it is nice to thank the hosts by tele-
phone the next day). It’s amazing how pleased
people are when you let them know that you
appreciate their efforts. In a note, it’s not the
length that counts—three or four lines are
enough. You can keep them from sounding
insincere by mentioning some special thing—
perhaps what you most enjoyed about the
weekend, or how much you liked meeting So-
and-so at the party, or when you first used
your new present.

Notes to sick people? Yes, I do write them,
but usually only to people I know well—

otherwise I send flowers. Make it a rule to
keep them cheerful and never mention news
that’s the least bit sad or depressing. Writing
notes takes the smallest bit of trouble, and
once you get accustomed to doing it it takes
no time at all. The same applies to politeness

pea

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He p
i
ty |
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(0 ap
trad
Were
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ut
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in general—with a little practice you'll find hi

it’s the easiest thing in the world!

7 .
hare why children should be started as ih

early as possible on proper manners, so that
they will soon become a habit with them.
Learning by example is not enough; you must
teach them to do the right thing. I find that
most of them imitate their parents, and if
mothers and fathers are at all sloppy in their
manners the children will be too.

Bringing up children is a continual round
of do this and do that. You must teach them
to say ‘‘Please’’ and “Thank you,” to bow
or curtsy to grownups, and say ““How do you
do?” nicely—not ‘Hi’ to adults—to write
thank-you notes, to be well behaved in other
people’s houses and when their parents have
guests.

Children should not be allowed to show off *
in front of visitors, to make a lot of noise and »
demand attention.
discourage this is simply to leave them alone. i
Adults often bother them with banal ques-
tions, not realizing that a child’s world is}
sometimes of a greater horizon than their own
and that their imagination is tremendous. :
Although my children are very young, I like
them to do very much what they like when
older people are around. They don’t like to
have a fuss made over them.

As children we were made to learn the
Golden Rule. I think that’s a whole philoso-
phy of manners by itself, rolled into a single
sentence: “Do unto others as you would have

is
NI
hous
he
WOU

atl

Tor
4

;
ly

I find the best way to :j,

them do unto you.” After all, what are “‘man- |

ners”’ but simply a way of treating people the
way you would like them to treat you? If
more of us remembered and tried to live by
the Golden Rule, bad manners would cease to
exist. END

|
\ EBRUARY, 1962

JFAN THIS MARRIAGE
BE SAVED?
. JONTINUED FROM PAGE 26

auch right to poke fun at others. At that point

ur son jumped in with his own brand of
Sarcasm. Bobby smugly asked if I'd had
‘ Diana’s riding outfit tailored by Omar the
entmaker. I reproved Bobby and ordered him
Yo apologize to his sister, now in floods of
‘Nears. Instead of supporting my attempt at
‘liscipline, Tim shrank back, put his hands
i ver his ears and begged everybody to be quiet.
“It needed his strength and his co-operation,
jegardless of how tired he was. Even when he
isn’t tired he doesn’t help me keep the young-
W ters in line. Suddenly it seemed as though I
st couldn’t stand his weakness and the way
he habitually evades his authority as a hus-
and and father. I was frustrated, frantic.
M) “In thirty seconds I was shrieking at him
WJike a banshee. the children were screaming at
ach other, and somehow in the uproar the
upper tray was overturned. Both youngsters
vere fiendishly delighted by the trouble they
iad stirred up. They thrive on scenes. Tim
loesn’t.
1) ‘He sneaked off to bed with nothing in his
™ tomach, looking old and beat, pale as death.
de put in a miserable, wakeful night in the
Wsuest room, and J felt sick of myself and the
'Wvay I'd abused him. In the morning I woke
vith a pounding headache and a determination
lo apologize. But at breakfast I spoke of my
Headache and Tim said his morning headaches
lfvere as regular as a clock, and that he hoped
i) wouldn’t consider it necessary to visit the
Moctor and run up another unnecessary med-
cal bill.
mM’ 6‘ was cut to the quick by his stinginess, his
Mack of sympathy. My good resolutions went
ilput the window. I reminded him how I always
sympathized with his ailments—and he has
t§nany. Three years ago, in the holiday season,
fre had an ulcer operation and I practically
ived at the hospital. The children and I post-
jponed our Christmas celebration until he
rould come home and share the tree and pres-
nts with us.
7 | “The phone rang and it was my mother-in-
law. Tim sees her ten hours daily at the plant,
‘he and brother Arthur ride to work with her,
" ind why she needs to phone our house several
bfimes a day is beyond me. Well, I answered,
ind foolishly mentioned my headache. She
‘immediately said she had a headache and a
‘fyackache as well. She added that my doctor,
who happens to be her doctor too, had told
yer there was nothing wrong with me except
nerves and too much pill swallowing. Tim got
‘Ion the phone and was very solicitous about his
Mother’s health; he advised her to stay home
find spend the day in bed.
tf “1 could have used a day in bed myself;
‘'omething he didn’t suggest. It was out of
Nhe question anyhow. The-whole house was
"Huesits weekly vacuuming—even my mother-
in-law grudgingly concedes I can beat her as a
d 1ousekeeper and cook—and the children had
‘ine tagged with a chauffeuring schedule that
‘}vould have flustered a taxi driver. The social
Jife of our three youngsters centers in a super-
}ictive church, located twenty miles from us.
‘or several years I have urged them to join a
* shurch nearby, but they refuse to give up their
jiccustomed activities and old friends. As a re-
fbult 1 average 250 miles a week in heavy traffic
'}ugging them to meetings of their clubs and
"| organizations. When I tried to plan my driving
Ithores that morning, I found that everybody’s
‘,ngagements conflicted. A blazing row burst
Sout and I felt like an early Christian martyr
1 |chained to three wild horses.

‘
e Sin and I are proud of our bright, attrac-
1 ive children, but we get little pleasure from
0 }hem. We’ye tried to make them happy. I’ve
Tied especially hard to provide them with the
% ndvantages Tim had as a child and I did not
* Nave. Yet all three youngsters are selfish, de-
' Manding, quarrelsome, unappreciative, un-
@ \<ind to one another, hateful to their father and
i me. I’guess some of it is our fault.
% | “Tim favors ouf son at the expense of his
Sisters, and they resent it. He will do anything
y Yor Bobby. Partly to offset Tim’s partiality, I
) ean toward my daughters. I want Diana and

‘|

Fay to havea pleasant childhood to remember.
My sisters and I have no pleasant memories of
our childhood, I can assure you.

“T was the eldest of four girls. My father, a
dedicated man, fantastically generous by his
own standards, was a minister. To father the
needs of the poor and unfortunate, whether
members of his congregation or not, came
ahead of my sisters and me. If my dear mother
had lived—I was just ten on the terrifying,
awful day I watched her topple to the kitchen
floor, dead of a heart attack—I imagine she
might have persuaded father to a course of
moderation and common sense. He burdened
my sisters and me with the suffering and prob-
lems of the whole world.

“The door of our house stood open always.
In the dining room was a large sugar bowl that
father kept filled with coins wrung from his
meager earnings. As was well known in our
little town, anybody in a financial bind was
welcome to walk into our house and help him-
self from the sugar bowl. We had a steady
stream of visitors, who often repaid their small
loans. ‘Everybody according to his need’ was
my father’s favorite maxim. Everybody, that
is. except my sisters and me.

OF needs carried no weight with father.
They were the needs of average girls for pretty
clothes, recreation, fun. All through four years
of high school I got by with one skirt and one
blouse and one sweater set. I never had a gym
blouse or gym shorts, a school requirement for
every student except my sisters and me; my
father regarded a gym costume as frivolous and
unnecessary, argued down the principal. We
were excused from the rule.

“One Easter a rich and kind parishioner en-
dowed my sisters and me with money for new
shoes, new gloves, new hats. Just as we started
to the store somebody came running in with
the news that a Mexican family traveling
through town to the apple orchards had
wrecked their jalopy and couldn’t pay for the
repairs. ‘Give me the shoes and bonnet money,
Jill,” said father without hesitation. I refused.
He slapped my hand, slapped it hard, and
jerked away the money. I cried, my little sisters
cried. The next day we wore shoes that were
polished but falling apart to the Easter ser-
vices, and no hats and gloves at all. The Mex-
ican family had the car repaired and was gone.
Their need, according to father, was greater
than ours.

“Last Easter I outfitted Bobby and our
daughters from head to toe, everything new
from the skin out, and I bought each of them
two pairs of shoes. My next-door neighbor, a
good friend but a bad manager and frequent
borrower, was in a budget mess with her hus-
band, so I bought shoes and Easter bonnets for
her youngsters too.

“Tim and I had a dreadful quarrel. Or
rather I quarreled and yelled and stamped my
feet. He stared at me with a look of hatred and
disgust and said my extravagance would
bankrupt him. I suppose I did get carried
away. Where my children, or any children, are
concerned it’s impossible for me to be much
impressed by lectures on thrift. There are
times when I just can’t bear for Diana and
Fay to do without anything.

“Tim doesn’t understand. That’s natural, of
course. Since he was born into prosperous cir-
cumstances he has no idea what Easter finery
and little luxuries can mean to a child. Or the
satisfaction a grown woman can feel just in
loading a freezer, unpacking brown-paper
bags and stocking her pantry shelves. It
sounds crazy, but if I notice my supplies are
low, I get this panicky feeling, as though the
children and I might starve, and so I race to
market and fill the gaps on the shelves.

“Tim has no conception of the bitterness of
poverty, the fears and the scars it leaves.
Poverty and my father’s altruism robbed me of
my education. I got straight A’s in high school,
but there was no money for college. When I
met Tim at nineteen I was working in the tele-
graph office; he was ten years older, a college
graduate. When we married Tim had already
been drafted by the Army but granted six
weeks of grace before reporting at camp. I was
romantic and deeply in love and hoped for at
least a brief honeymoon. Tim spent that six
weeks hard at work at the plant. I scarcely saw
him.

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‘‘During the two years he was in the Army,
I lived with his family. I pleaded for a job in
the factory so I could learn the business. His
mother said no. So I kept house for them all.
It often seems to me that my marriage never
recovered from that bad beginning. It seems to
me that Tim is still under the domination of
his mother, that moneygrubbing and his busi-
ness mean more to him than his children and
myself. He and I have no companionship. He
avoids it. He spends as little time at home as
possible. | love Tim, but I don’t make him
happy, and most of the time I’m wretchedly
unhappy too.”

Tim Tells His Side:

“With her energy and drive Jill could have
made a success of any career she chose,”
forty-five-year-old Tim said in a weary, hesi-
tant voice. “A profession would have forced
her to accept discipline. I can’t play the heavy
husband in a never-ending battle. As a result,
Jill has made her own rules and made a mess
of our lives.

“She has virtually ruined our children. One
minute she smothers the kids with possessions
they neither need nor appreciate, the next
minute her temper explodes and she denounces
them for ingratitude. Then, conscience-
stricken and overcome with compunction—
Jill is warmhearted and wants to be a good
mother, I’m sure—she chauffeurs them twenty
or thirty miles to some social affair she has
previously said they couldn’t attend.

“Naturally they are confused by such
goings-on. All three are jittery and nervous.
I’ve done my best to help my son escape our
home conditions by encouraging his participa-
tion in the Little League. Bobby is a born ath-
lete. Except for his fine muscular coordina-
tion, which I envy—I was always a duffer at
sports myself—Bobby is quite a bit like me. He
thinks before he speaks and he speaks slowly
enough to be understood.

“Diana and Fay carry on exactly like their
mother. They screech and scream like jungle
parrots; they rattle along so fast it’s impossible
to figure out the trivial cause of the most re-
cent dust-up. If | attempt to correct or to slow
them down, they’re impudent and rude. It’s
hard for me to ask Bobby to treat his sisters as
ladies when they don’t behave like ladies.
Yesterday Diana banged him on the head with
an ashtray.

“Jills overemphasis on clothing has made
our girls vain, materialistic, sloppy. The other
evening Diana hung her winter coat on the
floor, and when I protested she sassed me.
Next day Jill sent out the coat to be cleaned
and pressed again. If she had a normal, sensi-
ble concern about our daughter’s appearance,
she would restrict Diana’s diet and stop serv-
ing her rich desserts. Jill is a superior cook and
the sight of her pies and cakes often tempts me
to forget my own calorie counting.

I. a peculiar, limited sort of way, I think
Jill loves me. My laundry is done to perfection
and my socks are beautifully mended. Jill
hurls herself at keeping our house in order as
thoug.» her life depended on it. Not long ago I
watched her fly at the kitchen, mud-tracked,
piled with dishes, pots and pans; in fifteen
minutes she had everything sparkling clean. I
congratulated her. At once she turned on me,
tears in her eyes, and said bitterly, ‘I’m only a
scullery maid. I’ve been a scultery maid for
twenty-five years. That’s all ’'m good for.’

“When I first met Jill, [admired ner willing-
ness to work hard, her bubbliag versonality.
At nineteen she was supporting herself and a
younger sister. Although I was trcmendously
attracted, I was ten years older and in uniform.
I suggested we postpone marriage until I fin-
ished my Army stint. It was her idea that she
move in with my parents, whom she prof-.sed
to adore—perhaps it was true then—and +. ep
house for them during my absence.

‘Against my better judgment, we were mar-
ried right away. I had just been granted a
special furlough to put the affairs of the family
business in shape, superintend the installation
of machinery to fufill War Department orders,
and so on. In consequence Jill and I had to
forgo an elaborate wedding and a honeymoon
trip, something she never forgot. I bought her
a mink cape as a consolation present, some-
thing she soon forgot. Indeed, she passed

along the cape to her sister for a high-school-
graduation present.

“It is Jill’s habit to tell only half of every
story. She complains we’ve had no vacation
for three years. That is quite true. Every June
my brothers and I receive a vacation bonus.
My brothers take vacations. I don’t. I take the
money. For three years my annual bonus has
gone to pay off the bills Jill has contrived to
run up behind my back. Two years ago I set-
tled and closed out three delinquent depart-
ment-store accounts. In a matter of weeks Jill
had located several other accommodating
department stores whose collection agencies
shared handsomely in last year’s bonus.

“Jill complains because our household
bills—those I can catch up with—are seen by
my mother at the factory and settled by our
bookkeeping department. The custom dates
back to my military service. My people gen-
erously continued to pay my full salary while I
was overseas and the checks went to Jill at my
request. In addition, she received the regular
Army allotment for wives. When I returned
from Japan I expected to buy a house and
asked Jill for our bankbook. I then found we
had no savings. None. With her food and
lodging provided by my parents, Jill had frit-
tered away thousands of dollars. She had
nothing to show for the money. The only ex-
planation of the debacle I could ferret out was
that she had ‘helped’ her sisters and several
comparative strangers through numerous dire
emergencies.

“For a year after I came home Jill and I
camped out in a trailer, while | accumulated
the down payment for a house. She thought my
people should have bought a place for us.
Perhaps her dislike of my mother originated
then. In those days I lost hope of teaching Jill
the value and meaning of independence, prac-
ticality, financial responsibility, and arranged
for our bills to be mailed to the factory. As
a businessman, I must maintain my credit
standing.

**A year ago I was sued by a music shop I
had never heard of. It turned out that Jill had
finagled credit from the shop owner to buy a
violin which she gave to our postman’s child.

Last month she ‘loaned’ $35 worth of beef

from our freezer to a chronically distressed
neighbor. On another occasion Jill needed a
hat for church. She bought six bargain hats,
nonreturnable, at a sale. She distributed four
of the hats among the ladies of the choir.
Three years ago I had a long, expensive stay in
the hospital, following an expensive operation.
Jill welcomed me home with the surprise gift
of a grand piano. That year my vacation bonus
covered the down payment on the piano and a
portion of the hospital bills.

“Our medical expenses have always been
appalling. I’ve had several serious illnesses,
and Jill yells for the doctor if she hears one of
the youngsters sneeze or if she has a headache,

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

a backache, a cold, a cough. Sometimes I
think she and my mother are in a race to see
which of them can be the sickest with the least
excuse, but at least it can be said for mother
that she is old and works too hard for a
woman her age.

“Jill has the serene and mistaken conviction
that my resources are inexhaustible. The fac-
tory is prosperous at the moment—knock
wood!—but my family and I operate a small-
business in an era geared to big business.
We've been lucky in hanging on to enough de-
fense orders to meet the overhead. Then, too,
quite recently I was lucky enough to introduce
a do-it-yourself carpentry kit which seems to
be catching on nicely. With the economy ex-
panding so fast, a company the size of ours.
can’t slow down or we’re done for. Last ye
we grossed over a million dollars, but we ha
to invest $250,000 to develop and advertise the
kit. Fortunately Jill has no inkling of our last
year’s gross; she would at once assume the
million was pure profit and hers to disburse.

“TI don’t talk business to her. For years she
has tried to wangle a job at the plant. In one
week she could disorganize a complex organi-
zation that functions smoothly because it rests
on a solid basis of family loyalty and a roughiy
equal division of labor and rewards. In the
erroneous belief that I carry the whole load,
Jill wants to shove my mother and brothers to
the bottom of the heap. Brother John is a
salesman and an advertising expert, which ’m
not. Brother Arthur, our personnel manager,
is a wizard at recruiting the thorny, tempera-
mental, in-scarce-supply skilled workmen our
defense contracts depend on.
Arthur is my mother’s mainstay and favorite,
which is fine with John and me. She and
Arthur live together.

“By rights, my mother is entitled to collect a
lion’s share of our profits. She inherited a ma-
jority interest of the stock when my father
died. Theoretically she could take over man-
agement and toss out my brothers and me at
any time, a fact of life that Jill ignores. When I
was graduated from the Harvard School of
Business, my dad proved his faith in my ability
by sinking his capital in the factory which was
to be a showcase and test for my ideas.

“T thought Jill with her quick, sharp mind,
her energy, would be an ideal wife. Instead,
her extravagance has paralyzed my ambition.
Worry over her spending is always in my
thoughts, unraveling and pulling away my
confidence in myself. After everybody else has
quit for the day, I sit in my office hour after
hour and brood. I can hardly bear the pros-
pect of the inevitable uproar awaiting me at
home, the possibility a bill collector may be
lurking at the corner ready to pounce.”

The Marriage Counselor Says:
“Jill and Tim were difficult but rewarding
clients. Although their troubles were of long

dha @

Moreover, .

“Hh RUARY, 1962

ation, they had inner resources, standards.
“Gdually they recognized how and why they
le damaging each other and their children;

W were capable of change.
iFirst of all, Jill and I tackled the problem
ner compulsive spending. Deprived of a
al childhood and adolescence, forced to
lume responsibilities beyond her years, she
become an energetic, hardworking adult,

ness most of us enjoy in our teens. When
‘@ rushed out and bought six hats and gave
y four (her father had preached the
sedness of giving), she was obviously com-
sating for the poverty of her youth, buying
temporary emotional reassurance that she
no longer poor. She was also using her
less buying sprees to revenge herself on
for fancied slights, to win his attention.
vinced that he valued his mother, his
hers, his business more than her, she got
attention by burying him in bills. If he was
ympathetic about her headaches—Jill’s
rotic fearfulness of illness may have origi-
‘Wed at the time she saw her mother die—she

‘In some ways I believe she was subcon-
pusly challenging Tim to control her in the
her strict, loud-voiced father might have
e. Slow-spoken, meditative Tim was not
entially a weak man, but was tempera-
tally opposed to hasty, violent action. Fre-
‘@-ntly as he was gathering his forces to disci-
ie one of the youngsters she leaped to the
Id’s defense or, worse still, launched a
‘@interattack on him. His response was to
§s¢ his ears and withdraw in silence. Then he
oldered.

“As we explored the mechanics of her be-
Prior, Jill perceived its futility. Far from
“Bpving she was the rich and cherished wife of
itrong man, her wild shopping binges and
per outbursts were weakening Tim and
‘Bving him away. To paraphrase an old down-
earth Swedish saying, she was ‘spitting in
own soup.”

‘Tim would have been better advised to
t Jill’s childish whims and troublemaking.
chilly withdrawals frustrated them both.
‘Bove everything Tim wanted peace and
‘fm, a sane financial program. He invited
"s extravagance by hiding the facts about
income; he encouraged her to kid herself
at he could afford anything she wished. He
pused her jealous rage by permitting the
ajor household bills to be paid through his
pther’s department at the factory. In this ar-
ngement, despite his denials, I am reason-
ly sure he was punishing Jill for the worries
2 laid on him. The system was wholly in-
lective; indeed, provoked her to seek fresh
enues of easy credit.

‘As the first concrete step to improve the
‘farriage. Tim changed his method of paying
yuschold bills and simu]taneously Jill
anged to a physician who was not her
othér-in-law’s confidant. In my opinion Tim

J4J4J4J454 545%

ASK ANY
WOMAN

SAG Ah Ah ALLAN LAL ffl Al fA
BY MARCELENE COX

Dieting: Restoring the balance of nature.

Boy in interview: “Well, I think I’m re-
yonsible .. . away from home, that is.”

On the old farm, “delinquent” was some-
ling that happened to taxes. The woodshed
as the juvenile court; the full woodshed,
robation.

Safety match: No fiery temper in either
artner.

was not abnormally tied to his mother. When |
he spoke to her about the numerous calls to
the house, the older woman readily ee
her telephoning.

“Next, with some trepidation, Tim opened
the factory books to Jill. For the first time she
understood their exact financial situation and
realized that her extravagance was a menace
to the welfare of the business and might ac-
tually threaten her children with poverty. To |

this day, however, she believes that Tim earns Callouses

and deserves a higher income than his |
brothers, and she may be right. In a family
business such a situation is a commonplace.
After all, Tim’s mother was the majority
stockholder; the point is that all the working
members of the organization were satisfied.
Tim would have been lost without his job as
boss and policymaker.

“Jill made up her mind to practice finan-
cial restraint and save toward a definite goal— |
that overdue vacation. Without consulting
the inlaws, she and Tim decided on a trip to
Mexico and ringed a future date on the cal- |
endar. On the appointed date they bundled
the children in their car, made the trip and
had a memorable holiday. No relatives ob-
jected.

“Jill and Tim joined forces to bring their |
youngsters under control. In mimicking the
battles of their mother and father, Diana and
Bobby were bullying their elders and disrupt-
ing the household. Jill and Tim closed ranks in |
the matter of discipline and as far as humanly
possible eliminated signs of favoritism. If Tim
praised Bobby’s athletic ability, he compli- |
mented his daughter’s musical talents. He cut |
out casual promises, needling jokes. Jill re-
signed her position as an unpaid chauffeur |
for the children.

“One Sunday morning she and Tim an-
nounced a change in the family church affilia- |
tion. There were screams of anguish and noisy
threats of rebellion from Diana and Bobby.
But at a church within walking distance, they
soon acquired a new circle of friends—and also
acquired respect for their parents. The mean- |
ing of loyalty between brothers and sisters was
spelled out to the small fry. Teasing was for-
bidden, disobedience punished. One evening
Bobby absentmindedly called his sister “Fatso’
and, to his astonished chagrin, his father kept
him away from an important ball game. With
the reduction of her hours at the wheel of the
motorcar, Jill became less tense and exhausted,
less susceptible to minor illnesses, better able
to handle her temper.

“I still see her and Tim occasionally on a
professional basis, although Bobby is now
eighteen and a star quarterback on his college
team. At times Jill still flies off the handle. But
Tim has become considerably more assertive
and can usually calm her. She is considerably
more conservative in spending. Most of the
time, that is.”
Editors’ Note: This
densed from ac tual records b

DOROTHY C AMERON DISNEY

h Z ompiled and n
case history was compiled and con-

Dyeing: A process that gives one woman a
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The older you grow the more you realize
that happiness is seventy-five percent courage.

Lie detector: a child.

When they were asked, “Which is your
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“The sick child until he is well; the absent
one until he returns.” Today’s mother may
well add, “The mixed-up child until he is
straightened out.”

Wife of a promising young executive: “If
my husband gets another promotion we're
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Nothing unites two women more quickly

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Spring wardrobe on a budget

By NORA O’LEARY

PATTERN EDITOR

Bey
os
» 3 ,
; ® )
} '

be:
} 3

Pretty Mary Lynn Morrill is a
perfect model for her own skillful
sewing. She loves bright colors and
always thinks in terms of further
“possibilities”? when she plans her
wardrobe. For example, she will
make a red wool skirt to match
her coat; a sleeveless blue ottoman
top to make her suit skirt double
as part of a two-piece dress; and a
bright cover-up jacket for her
black crepe. As you can see, Mary
Lynn’s small investment in fabric
has yielded her big fashion returns.

$14.23 Mary Lynn’s red spring coat

is the essence of simplicity. The neckline
has a self band rather than a collar, and
the back has a gentle flare. She will make
a matching skirt, wear it with a pretty silk
blouse for a complete ensemble. Vogue
Design No. 4331. With it Mary Lynn

wears a petal fabric hat by Sally V.

$13.04 Cotton ottoman (at $2.98

per yard) is a wonderful weight for a
spring or summer suit. This one in bright
blue has a double-breasted jacket with a
flat collar and a self tie. Mary Lynn plans
to make a sleeveless blouse to match the
slim skirt. Vogue Design No. 4318. Her

becoming pillbox hat matches the suit.

$8. 94 Black Arnel-and-acetate crepe

makes this charming sleeveless dress that
can be dressed up or down. Mary Lynn
considers this one of the most useful dresses
in her wardrobe. She wears it with a bright
turquoise satin belt, a matching ribbon
cockade in her hair, and a three-strand

pearl necklace. Vogue Design No. 5360.

$3.80 This bright cotton is gay, in-
expensive and wonderfully becoming. The
colorful stripe is printed on the diagonal
and the dress is easy to make. The cum-
merbund might accent any one of the
bright stripes in the material; the same is
true of the headband. The dress zips up

the back and is Vogue Design No. 5256.

For other views, sizes and prices of Vogue Patterns, see page 136

LEOMBRUNO-BODI ©

135

For the pains and fever of Colds and Flu

} his is a simple fact: in private conversations,
in magazine articles, in newspapers and medi-
al journals, doctors and public health officials
ave.repeatedly recommended one thing for
dainful discomférts and fever of colds and flu.

That one thing is aspirin. Specifically, aspirin.

In fact, when we asked thousands of doctors

if they themselves took aspirin, better than
nine out of ten said, “Yes.”

So when any member of your family suffers
the painful discomforts and fever of a cold or
flu, help him to feel better fast with Bayer
Aspirin, preferred by more millions of people

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DOCTORS RECOMMEND ASPIRIN

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CHILDREN

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SO TABLETS

beac

44 GRS\ EA }

Pee

| FLAVOR E OD
|
|
|
{

Now children, as well as adults, can feel better fast with Bayer Aspirin.
You can give Flavored Bayer Aspirin for Children with your doctor’s

blessing, for it’s the exact 144-grain dosage doctors recommend.

136 LADIES’ HOME JOURNALBRUA

5 z 7 by every man in town, had there been an pe

THE BEAUTIFUL AND men. But there were the teenage boys, and shel Fa
ANXIOUS MAIDENS took charge of them as the next best thing, ap}.
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 75 portioning and supervising the village chores. St
The third member of the triumvirate was}.

maidens—three young girls. Two of them— _ Lida, with auburn-colored hair, flashing blue i

Lizzie and Lida Dutton—were the daughters eyes and fiery opinions. She was just eighteen.{’
of John Dutton, who had run the village store Lida was Waterford’s Early Warning System,
until he was forced into exile. The third was She had been posted as village sentinel on thef, ~.,
Sarah Steer, the twenty-year-old daughter of long, white board fence in front of her father’s} ie
Samuel Steer, once an insurance man, but house. She could spy all persons approaching
now the Federal postmaster at Point of Rocks. i
Sarah was tall and had a serene beauty.
Before the war she had attended Friends’
Seminary in Philadelphia and had the best from the marauders. She sat on the fence each}

fay

education in town. She thought of herself as day eating an apple, her braids swinging in the i
a poetess. She taught the smaller children and _ breeze, her feet bare. She knew everyone ard],
looked after her father’s insurance business. talked with all who came by, even Mosbygt.
Lizzie Dutton was nineteen, a dark and vi-_ men. Early in her tour of duty she put five Off

vacious beauty. She would have been sought Mosby’s men out of action by sending them to?

PARIS IN THE SPRING E

Other Views, Sizes and Prices of Vogue Patterns on Pages 62 & 63.

; Ms

ft vil

mand

- k) x

1119 1133 1131 1124 nds
MON §

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 1119. Suit, blouse and scarf; 10-18 (31-38) ; $3.00. a
Version shown requires 44% yards of 54” fabric without nap for suit and .

scarf, size 14.
VOGUE DESIGN NO. 1133. One-piece dress and jacket; 10-18 (31-38); i :

$3.50. Version shown requires 3% yards of 45” fabric, size 14.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 1131. Coat; 10-18 (31-38); $3.00. Version shown 4
requires 3% yards of 54” fabric without nap, size 14. P her

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 1124. Suit and blouse; 10-18 (31-38); $3.00.
Version shown requires 2144 yards of 54” fabric without nap for suit, 134
yards of 35” fabric for blouse, size 14. Ks

SPRING WARDROBE ON A BUDGET t

Other Views, Sizes and Prices of Vogue Patterns on Page 134.

4331 5360 5256 4318

VOGUE DESIGN No. 4331. Coat; 10-20 (31-40); $1.50. Version shown
requires 2% yards of 54” fabric without nap, size 14.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5360. “Easy to Make’’ one-piece dress; Junior
Miss sizes 11-13 (3114-33) and Misses sizes 10-18 (31-38); $1.00. Version
shown requires 3 yards of 45” fabric without nap, size 14.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5256. “Easy to Make” one-piece dress; 10-18
(31-38); $1.00. Version shown requires 37% yards of 35” fabric without
nap, size 14. Bodice and skirt have been cut on straight grain of diagonally
striped fabric.

VOGUE DESIGN No. 4318. Suit and blouse; 10-18 (31-38); $1.50. Version
shown requires 4%¢ yards of 35” fabric without nap for suit, size 14.

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a ouse that had a severe case of mumps. She
lew that she could keep the raiders away
im a suckling pig simply by inventing a case
ya@measles in the household of the owner. She
us” *t above a fib if a fib was the best defense.
bug? was sly and conniving whenever neces-
«@)Y, and sometimes more often.

en) Neither Sarah nor Lizzie nor Lida was sat-
ymed with things as they were in no man’s
}d. They wanted a few Federal troops to
pear on the south side of the river to frighten
: raiders off. And they were angry because
etrict blockade was maintained at Point of
tdbcks, where they had always traded. But they
jnained loyal to the Union.

in May, 1864, on Lida Dutton’s eighteenth
thday, a foraging party of regular Confed-
ite cavalry visited the village. They tore up
floor boards from the kitchens, split open
j ttresses, and cleaned out the canned goods
im the cellar shelves. They left only scraps
the townspeople. Not even a candle was
t on the Dutton shelves.

| ‘It is about time something was done,” Lida
d her mother, ‘‘and I am going to do it.
ee will see.’ Not for her the Quaker ad-
nition to young girls: “Thee is a child until
’e is a woman grown. Children are to be
en n and not heard. Thee will act accord-
ily.” ’ Having passed her eighteenth birthday,
: considered it no longer applied to her.

The next morning Lida was gone. She had
t up at dawn, trudged the two miles out
‘Mrs. Kinstrup’s farm, borrowed old, blind
ftsy, and had ridden bareback across the
/yuntains to Point of Rocks. At the river she
jd decrepit old Patsy to a tree and provided
in with food for the day. Then she hunted
| and down the riverbank until she found a
ky scow hidden in the reeds. She was in
dstream before she was challenged by three
faion sentries on the north shore who lev-
io their carbines at her and ordered her to go
ick. They hadn’t counted on Lida and her
jile. Once she started talking, no one could
|. a word in. Even Mosby’s men didn’t point
Ins at women, she scolded. Any fool could
t that she was so busy trying to keep the
fat afloat that she wouldn’t have time to
foot them. In her country, if a man saw a
man all alone and in trouble he would res-
2 her, not shoot her. The soldiers obedi-
tly waded into the river, swam out to her
d pulled the boat ashore—on the Union
le. One even gave her a ride to Point of
Iycks on his horse.

4ida wasted precious little time on her
cle, Samuel Steer, whom she had given as
r excuse for coming to Point of Rocks. She
sept into his post office, delivered kisses from
: family, and asked to be introduced to the
lonel who served as the provost marshal of
2 town. Once in his tent, she stood straight
i, her two bare feet, with her fists clenched
id her eyes sparkling, and delivered an im-
essiye speech, a whirlwind recitation of all
at was wrong with the Federal Government.
‘no Union soldiers were going to be sent
jross the river to protect the citizens who had
mained loyal to the United States, then
ose citizens would have to protect them-
ives, she declared. The least the Govern-
lent could do was to lift the blockade so that
ley could purchase the necessities of life to
place what the Rebels had stolen. Then Lida
virled from the tent and left her audience
opping his face with a bandanna.
) The colonel was a little confused. Lida left
| with the impression that he was to blame
r everything. When he got over the shock of
nat she had said, he even rushed over to
i muel Steer’s store to find her so he could
ologize for having broken off the interview
abruptly. The thing to do about the whole
ess, he told her, was to get the regulations
janged. If the people of Waterford could
ake some kind of demonstration of their loy-
ity to the Union, the blockade might be lifted.
pphe soldiers at Point of Rocks had never
en anyone quite like Lida Dutton before.
Dur of them offered to row her back across
le river. Lida would have preferred the
»lonel as an escort, but “‘the soldiers are all
zht,” she confessed in her notebook. “The
te who took me to Patsy was quite nice-
ooking. He thought I was quite pleasant and
didn’t tell him any different. He wants to call

upon me in Waterford and I did not discour-
age him. It would be nice to see a blue uniform
to take the place of the Secesh.” The list of
provisions that Lida brought back from her
trip was another measure of her success. It in-
cluded ‘4 lbs. of sugar, 14 of tea, same of
soda, two boxes of matches, | pair of shoes, 5
yards of calico, 1 tin cup and one iron spoon,
1 quart of molasses, | pint of oil, 3 yards of
Kentucky jeans, a half of plug of tobacco for
Grandma Kinstrup, 3 big ginger cakes, and 10
cents’ worth of candy.”’

By the time Lida Dutton had coaxed old
Patsy back to Waterford, she had made up
her mind to publish a newspaper. As soon as

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she reached home with her iron spoon, mo-
lasses and Grandma Kinstrup’s plug of to-
bacco, she summoned her sister Lizzie and her
cousin Sarah and the three set to work. They
produced a most remarkable journal. The
three girls wrote every word and published
their pro-Union newspaper in a village almost
completely surrounded by Confederate sol-
diers—a daring enterprise indeed. Its fame
spread as fast as a woods fire in a dry spell.
Jefferson Davis himself was quoted in one
Richmond newspaper as labeling the Water-
ford News a “‘traitorous sheet.”

The objectives, as Lida outlined them to her
coeditors, were threefold. The first was to

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137

make a “demonstration of loyalty.” This job
was turned over to Sarah Steer, who was a
master of noble sentiments. She dedicated a
poem that occupied almost the whole of the
first front page to Abraham Lincoln, “‘honest
of heart, true of purpose, endowed with judg-
ment rare.’’ She plumped for Lincoln’s re-
election, probably the only editor in the entire
South who supported him.

The second objective of the Waterford News
was the harpooning of the Confederacy, and
Lida reserved this all-important task for her-
self. She had her say about the presidency, the
cabinet, the generals, the currency, the food
and the morals of the South. Lida referred to

138

Jefferson Davis as ‘“‘good old re/ieable Jeff.”
Robert E. Lee was “Old Massa,” and the
Army of the Confederate States became “The
Chivalry.” “Last week,’ Lida wrote,
“The Chivalry scored still another brilliant
victory. The Rebs bravely attacked the Widow
MacMahon’s barn, burned it to the ground,
and carried off a sow and eight shoats.”’

The third objective of the Waterford News
was men. If the Federal Government wouldn’t
send any soldiers to protect them, perhaps the
soldiers had other ideas and could be induced
to come on their own. Lizzie had been think-
ing about men since 1861 and she went to
work with a vengeance. The “Marriage”’ col-
umn about the beautiful and anxious maidens
was her idea. She also covered the pages with
advertisements. ““Wanted,”’ she wrote, “‘a few
tinkers to mend our buckets, boilers, coffee
pots and tin cups”; or “Wanted: a few stores
with dry goods, molasses candy, and other
stationery suited to the tastes of the commu-
nity. Young and handsome clerks not objec-
tionable”’; or ‘“Wanted: a few young surgeons
to mend our broken hopes.”

The three young editors finished writing the
first issue with a flourish, but no one had con-
sidered where it could be printed or how it
could be financed. The girls had a total capital
of $3.91 in United States money. Samuel
Steer, of Point of Rocks, was the only man
who knew any printers. The girls drew lots to
see who would go across the mountain, Lizzie
won. In some ways, this was an unfortunate
choice, but in at least one way it was a good
thing that Lizzie did make the trip.

Lizzie was not quite so determined as her
sister. In the first place, she wouldn’t hear of
riding across the mountain bareback. In addi-
tion to borrowing Mrs. Kinstrup’s horse, she
had to borrow a buggy. In the second place,
when she got to the river crossing, she couldn’t
find the boat that Lida mentioned. She stood
on the riverbank for four hours trying to at-
tract the attention of a soldier on the north
shore. It wasn’t until she decided to swim for
it that she attracted attention and then several
soldiers came at once, catching her behind a
tree without much on, She put her clothes
back on and had almost convinced the sol-
diers to take her across when a pompous
officer appeared and adamantly refused to let
her leave the Virginia shore. In the end, after
much pleading, he agreed to carry the copy of
the paper to Samuel Steer along with a hastily
scribbled note explaining what it was and
what had to be done about it.

Lizzie’s troubles were far from over. She
had no sooner reached the top of the moun-
tain on her way home than a group of Mos-
by’s men appeared. They had been watching
her all day. As she reported later, when she
was safely home, she had been “kissed by a
dirty old man.” The man took the buggy and
harness and might have taken the horse except
that he “‘was so old he could hardly stand
up.”” Needless to say, Lizzie was forbidden to
make any more trips to Point of Rocks. So
were Sarah and Lida.

nN /
\ | eanwhile, the officious officer had carried
the handwritten copy of the Waterford News
not to Samuel Steer, but to the provost mar-
shal, suggesting that it might be some kind of
communication from a Rebel spy. The colonel
read Lizzie’s note to her Uncle Samuel and
looked at the paper with its ‘“‘Union For-
ever’ on the masthead and promptly con-
tributed $5 to a Waterford News fund which
he augmented to more than $65 by the simple
device of selling subscriptions. The next day
Mr. Steer sent the copy off to a friend in
Baltimore who was an editor of the Ba/timore
American and he printed up several hundred
extra copies at his own expense and sent them
out to most of the names on his out-of-town
subscription list.

None of the girls knew that their little
paper was about to become famous. They
had quietly begun the second issue. By com-
mon consent, the administrative part of the
newspaper business was now handed to Lida.
Her first concern was getting the copy for the
new issue to Point of Rocks. Lida thought
that the most likely courier would best be
her young fifteen-year-old cousin, Billy Steer,
Sarah’s brother. Billy was the male
then in Waterford and had been entrusted

oldest

with the secret of the old Underground Rail-
road route. Besides, he would be the one
person best qualified to deal with his father.
Lida’s proposal was outvoted; but not one
to be deterred, she got Billy out of bed in the
middle of the night and sent him on his way.

Billy Steer had no trouble reaching and
crossing the river, but when he got to the
Maryland side he stumbled into a Union
picket line and was marched off to Frederick
and lodged in jail as a Confederate spy. A
week later he was allowed to write to his
father in Point of Rocks and Samuel Steer
sent a member of the provost guard up to
get him out of jail, but no sooner had Billy
signed an oath of loyalty to the Union and
stepped out on the streets of Frederick than
he was picked up for draft evasion by civilian
authorities. This was too much for Samuel
Steer; this time he came himself to Frederick
to testify to Billy’s age. “I think thee’d do best
to stay on the Virginia side of the river,” the
elder Steer told his son as he got Billy out of
jail for the second time.

“He didn’t tell thee not to come back, did
he?’ Lida asked Billy when he reported.
When Billy shook his head in the negative,
she said firmly, ‘““Then thee can go again.”

As Lida saw the problem, the trouble was
all on the Federal side of the border. What
Billy Steer needed was some kind of creden-
tials to stay out of jail. These credentials
could best be furnished by making him some
kind of Federal official. Lida decided that
Billy should be appointed as Federal post-
master of Waterford. Lizzie pointed out to
her sister that it was hardly legal for the
President of the United States to appoint a
postmaster in Virginia when Virginia didn’t
even belong to the United States at that
particular moment. Lida wanted to know why
Waterford didn’t secede from Virginia. After
all, Virginia had seceded from the Union,
and what was good for the goose was good
for the gander, Lida now sat down and wrote
a nice chatty letter to Abraham Lincoln,
explaining that Waterford was loyal to the
Union—indeed, that some of the residents
were even discussing the possibility of the
town’s secession from Virginia. Although no
decision had been reached, she said, she
thought it might be a good idea to appoint
a Federal postmaster for the village. Such an
appointment might help to make up people’s
minds. Lida happened to have handy a
nomination for the post, a staunch Unionist,
one William Steer, a lifelong resident. Lida
neglected to mention that William Steer’s life-
long residency was only fifteen years.

As long as she was writing to higher author-
ity, Lida went ahead to outline the difficulties
under which the people of Waterford were liv-
ing and suggested that Federal authorities lift
the blockade at Point of Rocks. By the time
this letter was actually mailed, a week after
Lida first wrote it, she had received the
printed copies of the first issue of the Warer-
ford News, so. she sent one along, carefully
underlining on the front page the laudatory
poem Sarah had written about the President

In the meantime, the Waterford News had
become famous. Horace Greeley, of the New
York Tribune, wrote an editorial about it.
Others read it and passed it along to friends.
Nearly all who wrote to the editors enclosed a
dollar for a subscription. By the end of July,
1864, six weeks after the appearance of Vol-
ume One, Number One, Samuel Steer was
holding some 200 letters to the editor at Point
of Rocks.

The patriotic content of the Waterford
News may have made an impression on such
people as Horace Greeley, but the common
soldiers to whom it was delivered at Point of
Rocks were interested in the beautiful and
anxious maidens. Sixty-seven subscriptions
had been sold by the colonel and sixty-seven
copies of the first issue were passed around the
Union camp until they were in shreds. Practi-
cally every soldier who visited the post office in
the next few weeks stopped to ask Samuel
Steer where Waterford was and if the beautiful
and anxious maidens were really true.

After the raid on Washington by Gen. Jubal
Early in July, it became imperative that the
Union forces north of the river have some
knowledge of Early’s future strategy. Samuel
Steer volunteered to try the old Underground
Railroad route to Waterford, where he hoped
he might be able to establish contact with
Union sympathizers in the Shenandoah Val-
ley and learn something of Early’s move-
ments. He was to take one Union soldier with
him and it was announced that a volunteer
was needed for a dangerous mission. The re-
sponse was unenthusiastic until the word got
out that the volunteer would probably get to
see Waterford. Then 100 men stepped for-
ward. The lucky man who accompanied Sam-
uel Steer on the night of July 29th was a Pri-
vate Alonzo Birch. The trip was later described
by Mr. Steer ina letter to his daughter-in-law:

“Private Birch was only nineteen years old
and not exactly the best man for the mission,
being inclined to clumsiness. When he arrived
at the rendezvous I found that his horse was so
laden down with baggage that the animal
could not move without banging and clank-
ing. Upon investigation I found that the bag-
gage consisted largely of stores such as coffee,
tea, sugar and flour, although there were, by
actual count, thirty-three different pots and
pans. All these things had been collected by
the soldiers of Point of Rocks as gifts to the
young ladies of the village. While I was grati-
fied at the thoughtfulness thus expressed, I
tried to get Private Birch to leave everything
behind, explaining that any noise would ex-
pose us to capture. His argument against leav-
ing the things behind was a simple one and I
strongly suspect that it was thought up for
him by the combined minds of all the donors
of the gifts. I was the important person, he
told me. He would be making all the noise. If
there were any Rebs about, they would come
after him and I would get away. The main
thing was that we should stay well apart.
That’s the way we did it. During most of that
black night I walked along on foot, leading my
horse, carefully marking the way. Far behind

_ PATENT
- ATTORNEY

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

me I could hear Birch banging along, sound
ing like Don Quixote in full armor. The Reb:
were moving north to Chambersburg tha
night, of course, and had left no pickets in tha
part of the state. If it had been any other nig
in the year, we’d have aroused every Secesh i
Loudoun County before we were done.”

4
1 he young ladies of Waterford had hopec
for a slightly larger contingent of Federal so
diers, but they were more than happy wit
one. Private Birch was the war’s biggest her¢
to them. Even the presence of Samuel Stee:
who hadn’t been home for three years, failed
to detract from his welcome. Private Birck
was led into the Dutton family parlor and en
throned on the sofa, where he was plied with
everything good to eat that the girls coule
find. In Lida’s notebook he wrote in a b&c
scrawl, “Private Alonzo Birch—Ist Michiga
Cavalry—Clinton County, Michigan.” Afte
it Lida wrote, “The very first Union soldier we
have ever seen in this town.” Lizzie also added
a note of her own: “He is homely. He ha
freckles.”’ That night, when Samuel Steer and
Private Birch recrossed the river, they too
the copy for the third issue of the Waterford
News with them, and carried Lida’s letter te
Abraham Lincoln.

Mr. Lincoln seems to have been highl
amused at the idea of appointing a Federa'
postmaster in a Virginia town. In a letter te
Lida, he thanked her for the paper and tol
her that Mr. Steer’s credentials were on thé
way. He also informed Lida that the provos
marshal at Point of Rocks had been ordere
to lift the blockade once a week. At that time
all Virginians who could present proof of thei
loyalty would be allowed to purchase good
in the amount of $10 per family.

The next soldiers to be brought to Water
ford as a result of the newspaper were Confed
erates. The Civil War was a gossipy war. Pick
ets from both armies often met on neutra
ground to trade and exchange news. Unior
soldiers on guard duty along the Potomag
who had read the Waterford News wanted t¢
know where the town was. They also wante
to know whether it was true that all the girl
were beautiful and anxious. The Confederate:
of whom they asked these questions pricke
up their ears. They were interested in beautifu
and anxious maidens too. Toward the end o'
July, shortly before Private Birch’s visit, sev:
eral Confederate cavalry detachments rodé
through the village, the soldiers twisting anc
craning, but none of these detachment:
stopped. It wasn’t until the middle of Augus
that the Rebels found out the truth.

A detachment of the 2nd Georgia Cavalry
under the command of a Maj. William Mich
ener had been operating as a scouting force
along the Potomac and had heard the rumors
Late on the afternoon of August 12th, as th
detachment cantered south, it was discovere
that the men had reached the outskirts o
Waterford. The major told his men that the
could stop and water their horses and look
around. He was going exploring himself.

It was the custom for the women to collec
their children off the street and draw the shut
ters tight on the approach of Confederates
Consequently, when Major Michener rode uy
the main street, he found only one building ir
which there was any sign of life—the littl
store which housed the insurance company
Sarah Steer was working inside. The majo!
dismounted, a tall, dusty figure with light
close-cropped beard, in a threadbare uniforn
with a saber at his side. He crossed the wooder
sidewalk, opened the door and stopped. Sarat
did not look up from her work. “Confedet
ates are not welcome here,” she said. The ma}
jor laughed and Sarah looked up. And tha
was how Sarah Steer fell in love with a Con
federate. There wasn’t much said betweer
them that first afternoon, but when Majo)
Michener rode off he bowed from the saddl«
at a shuttered window on the side of the build
ing from which Sarah was peeking. “Welcom«
or not,” he said, “Tl return.”

Come back he did too. General Sheridar
was beginning operations in the Shenandoal
Valley and regular Confederate cavalry ha¢
augmented Mosby’s men along the flanks o
the defensive effort. Almost every afternoon

CONTINUED ON PAGE 144

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140

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 138

for a time, Major Michener and his men
would ride into town and water their horses at
the old mill. And almost every afternoon
Major Michener would ride up to the store
building, dismount and enter. It was not long
before he and Sarah were walking up the
street to her house together after she had
closed the office for the day.

There was naturally some disapproval in the
village when it became apparent that Sarah
Steer had taken up with a Rebel. Lizzie and
Lida were the most furious. Sarah was as cool
as she could be. She went ahead with her poem
for the fourth issue of the Waterford News,
calling on a “gentle zephyr’ to cool the
fevered brows of “‘our patriot army.” She also
wrote a long and impassioned editorial calling
for the election of Lincoln and Johnson.

\ Les Michener obviously did not know of
Sarah’s literary efforts. All he knew was that
Sarah believed in the Union and wouldn’t
change her views. Although this constituted
what he called “‘wrongheadedness,” he
seemed to think of it as one of those unfathom-
able women’s whims, something to be tolerated
in one someone loves.

Lida’s confidential aside to President Lin-
coln that some of the people of Waterford had
““discussed”’ the possibility of secession from
Virginia had, meanwhile, been handed on to
the War Department. From there it reached
the new state of West Virginia.

Operating in the northwestern section of
Virginia was a band of guerrilla fighters
known as the Loudoun County Rangers un-
der the command of a Capt. James Key. Cap-
tain Key was no stranger to Waterford. He
was a dedicated and resourceful Union man
who had eluded and fought Mosby for the
better part of three years, and many of his
victories had been cheered, even in the Water-
ford News. But cheering Key and having his
men in the village were two different things.

Hearing that Waterford was about to secede
from Virginia, Key sent sixteen men to the
town as a makeshift occupation army. They
arrived at six o’clock one morning, took over
the Quaker meetinghouse as a headquarters,
and started out to look over the town. It didn’t
take them long to prove themselves worse
than Mosby’s men. They appropriated what
they needed. And whenever they found a
chicken and took it, they left a receipt for it
which could be applied to West Virginia taxes
at a later date when the village was formally
annexed to that state.

The Loudoun County Rangers stayed in
Waterford for just two days. Toward the end
of the second day, Major Michener rode into
town with seven men from the 2nd Georgia
Cavalry. The fight that followed was the only
battle ever to take place in Waterford. Of the
sixteen Rangers, four were killed and two
wounded. The ten others were chased out of
town. Major Michener lost one man killed
and two wounded. Both of the wounded be-
came Lizzie’s patients in the upstairs bedroom
of the Dutton house.

After the battle, Lida wrote the only favor-
able note she ever allowed herself in behalf of
the Confederates, and it was included in the
next issue of the Waterford News. “I will take
my hat off to one brave Rebel,’ she said.
“When I last saw him he was chasing ten
ruffians out of town all by himself. Some of
the Secesh have some manly virtues after all.”

On the morning of September 21, 1864.
Lida was sitting on the front fence. As usual,
she was barefooted, her hair hung down to her
waist in braids, and she was eating an apple.
Far to the south she saw a sizable cloud of
dust approaching. The events of that morning
were commemorated in a poem which Lida
wrote on the occasion of her golden-wedding
anniversary in 1916. Some lines of that poem
go as follows:

Are they gray or are they blue ?
Are they Reb or are they true?
I peer. I think I can see

My gallant husband-to-be.

The column was one of Union cavalry, of
the 13th New York. At its head, like any true
ight, rode a young first lieutenant by the
ne of John Hutchinson. Lieutenant Hutch-

inson was a dashing young man with black
handlebar mustaches. He had enlisted as a
private at the time of Fort Sumter and he had
fought at nearly every major battle of the war.
At Gettysburg he had been brevetted a second
lieutenant of cavalry on the field of battle. A
few months before he first arrived at Water-
ford, he had distinguished himself again at
Yellow Tavern, winning a promotion and a
medal at the battle in which Jeb Stuart was
killed.

In later years, Lieutenant Hutchinson wrote
down the story of September 21, 1864, for his
grandchildren. ‘“‘We were the first Union
troops to come to Waterford,” he said. “I saw
a redheaded, barefoot girl sitting on a fence.
I thought she was a Reb, of course. I took my
hat off and asked her if there was anywhere I
could get a drink of water. When I first spoke
to her, I thought her blue eyes were going to
pop out of her head. She didn’t seem to be
able to comprehend that I had actually spoken
to her. She didn’t seem to be able to speak
herself. Finally she slid down off the fence and
beckoned to me to ride up into the yard where
there was a well. She got me an old, battered
dipper full of water and handed it to me, still
without saying a word. I looked at her more
closely and I saw that she had tears in her
eyes. While I was still drinking, she darted
into the house and in a moment or two other

MOTHERS

Mothers are what rise up gaily

To a thousand crises daily:

To the missing sock and buckle,

To the ivy-poisoned knuckle,

To the dank and earthwormed pocket,
To the ill-starred homemade rocket,
To the stark and wigless dolly,

To the nervous-stomached collie,

To the prom dress undelivered,

To the bathroom moist and rivered,
To the guppy’s grave, to mourn it,
To the Knee that knew the hornet,
To the jelly in the door lock,

To the home-bescissored forelock,
To the oversodaed moaner,

To the date who said he'd phone her,
To the bedspread with the clay on,
To the stepped-on spreading crayon;

FATHERS

Fathers are what say, ‘‘Why, dearie,

Why should you be looking weary?”

Fathers are what come from stations

To fantastic situations:

To the treetop-stranded kitten,

To the drain clogged with a mitten,

To the swallowed dime or nickel,

To the circuit short and fickle,

To the weeping Little Leaguer,

To the unwise dahlia digger,

To the TV picture rolling,

To the shoe that needs half-soling,

To the loud unwashered faucet,

To the tree with kites across it,

To the not-housebroken puppy,

To the sick and gasping guppy,

To the no-speed record player,

To the doll left on the stair,

To the unimproved report card,

To the teen who isn’t sport-carred,

To the dentist’s bill for braces,

To the newly-measled faces;

All the things we only grope with,

Fathers come back home and cope
with.

By BARBARA A. JONES

women began appearing. The girl had been
the only soul in sight when we first rode in,
but now there were girls and old ladies and
young women and children. Every one of them
brought something—cakes, coffee, milk,
cookies, fresh-baked bread, ham and chicken.
They must have brought out every scrap of
food they had in the town. They moved about
among the men, who had all dismounted and
were coming into the yard. I heard one of the
soldiers tell another that this was the Water-
ford town which got out the paper, but I didn’t
know about that at the time. I tried to find the
redheaded girl again, but she was busier than
all the rest, and I never did get to say another
word to her. I noticed, though, that she had
put on a pair of shoes and that she’d put her
hair up. Once or twice when I turned around
quickly, I saw her looking at me. We stayed at
the house almost an hour. When we mounted
and rode down the street again there was a
flag flying from in front of every house—the
Stars and Stripes. I told the major that some-
day I was going to come back to that town and
marry that redheaded girl. And she hadn’t
even said one word to me yet.”

Waterford now had two beaux, one from
each army, slipping into town to call on the
beautiful and anxious maidens. They came in
the late afternoon or in the evening and they
went into the parlors to sit in the midst of the
family groups. They brought gifts of things
that had been scarce in the village for three
years. Major Michener rode up from the fight-
ing in the Shenandoah Valley on at least ten
occasions during the early fall. Lieutenant
Hutchinson came oftener. It is interesting to
note that the two Confederate soldiers were
still convalescing in the Dutton household
throughout this period and that the lieutenant
sat in the parlor downstairs drinking tea and
never once discovered them.

It was inevitable that soldiers from both
sides would meet. One October night a party of
four Confederate cavalrymen came upon a
lone Union sergeant watering half a dozen
horses near the mill and chased him the whole
length of the main street, firing their pistols
and giving the Rebel yell. Some of the bullets
broke windows or shattered wood in some of
the houses. The courting privileges almost
ended then and there. The good Quaker
women wanted no more bloodshed, and on
the day after the clash they decreed that no
soldier from either side would be allowed in
the village to call on the families. Lida finally
got the rule rescinded. She made up several
white flags out of scraps of cloth and posted
them at each entrance to town. Beside each
flag she placed a sign which welcomed all
soldiers to Waterford, provided they left their
arms outside the town limits or promised not
to use them while calling in the village.

W. had no more troubles in Waterford
and it is a wonder we didn’t think of it in the
beginning,” Lida wrote many years later.
“There were no more raids and no more shoot-
ing. Of course, at first some of the men didn’t
read the signs. One night Lieutenant H. came
over from Harper’s Ferry at about eight
o’clock. He tied his horse at the barn and
came to the kitchen door. We asked him to
come sit in the parlor and have tea with us.
While he was there Major M. came into the
yard to see S. and W. [the wounded Confeder-
ates] and he found Lieutenent H.’s horse witha
Union saddle on it in the yard. Major M
knocked on the kitchen door and then came
into the house with his gun drawn. He told
Lieutenant H. that he was his prisoner and
that he would have Lieutenant H.’s pistol and
sword. Lieutenant H. said that he understood
he was visiting our house under a flag of
truce. Major M. said he didn’t know anything
about a flag of truce and that he’d have the
arms, thank you. I went to the kitchen door
and called for Sarah. She came over and faced
Major M. and told him the least he could be
was a gentleman. All of us lit into Major M.
then and told him he ought to read the signs
when he came into town. He finally gave the
gun and sword back to Lieutenant H. and
promised he’d read the signs when he left
town. We all sat and ate tea and cakes then,
but Lieutenant H. and Major M. just sat
across from each other and looked daggers
the rest of the time they were there.”’

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

The war moved up the Shenandoah Valley,
In November Major Michener was captured
by Federal troops and was interned at Alex-}
andria. In February, 1865, Lieutenant Hutch-
inson was captured near Waynesboro and was
interned in Libby Prison. When she learned |
of Lieutenant Hutchinson’s capture, Lida sat }
down and wrote her last letter to President
Lincoln. She enclosed all the subsequent issues }
of the Waterford News, reminded him of their }
earlier correspondence, and suggested that it |
might be a good idea to exchange Major
Michener for Lieutenant Hutchinson at the
next prisoner exchange. She added a post- |
script that she thought the new postmaster
was doing an excellent job, but that she
thought he should have a horse. ““He would
not mention it himself, but it is nine mil
from here to Point of Rocks and there are n
good horses left in this part of the country.”
The President wrote back: ‘“Dear Miss Dutton:

I have received your letter of March 6th. Al-

though it is usually my policy to get a major

in return for a major, I have decided to send 4

your letter to the War Department. I am sure
your lieutenant will be returned to you in
good health.”

Major Michener and Lieutenant Hutchin-
son were exchanged during the last days of the
war. Neither saw any further action. After the
surrender, Major Michener walked all the
way from Richmond to Waterford on foot and
arrived in the village in June, 1865. He and
Sarah Steer were married the next month.
When he and his bride left for Georgia on
their honeymoon, they traveled in a two-
wheeled cart with “U.S. Mail” painted on it |
in big red letters. It was a gift of the father of
the bride, the postmaster of Point of Rocks,
Maryland. It was drawn by a fine young
horse which was the gift of the bride’s brother,
the postmaster of Waterford, Virginia.

William Michener found his plantation
burned, his slaves gone and his fortune dissi-
pated. In the early spring of 1866 he and his
bride embarked at Savannah on a ship bound
for California. Their descendants live in that
state to this day.

Lieutenant Hutchinson had rejoined his
regiment on April 14, 1865, and was an eye-
witness of the assassination of President Lin-
coln at Ford’s Theater. As a matter of fact, he
almost caught John Wilkes Booth as he rode
down the alley that night. It was Lieutenant
Hutchinson who furnished the first positive
identification of the assassin and who estab-
lished the fact that Booth had escaped on
horseback. For several weeks after the shoot-
ing, Lieutenant Hutchinson was in charge of
one of the cavalry details that tracked down
the conspirators. During all the rest of 1865
he was held on duty in Washington as a wit-
ness in the investigations and trials that sur-
rounded the assassination. It was not until
April, 1866, that he returned to Waterford
and asked for Lida’s hand in marriage. By
that time the village had returned to normal
and Lida’s father had returned from exile.
Mr. Dutton was somewhat stricter than Sam-_
uel Steer had been. He objected to Lida’s
marrying outside the Quaker meeting, espe-
cially to a man still in uniform. So, on a dark
and rainy night, John Hutchinson and Lida
Dutton eloped. They walked out to Mrs.
Kinstrup’s farm, borrowed her old horse and

new buggy and rode across the mountain to *
Point of Rocks. There they huddled on the *
front porch of Samuel Steer’s post office until ;
morning and were married by a traveling 4

preacher who got off the train to do the job.
They lived together for fifty-five years, had 3}
eight children, twenty-seven grandchildren,
and an as yet undetermined number of :
great-grandchildren.

Lizzie Dutton, the most anxious of the
beautiful and anxious maidens, and the one
who started it all with her column, was still
anxious. But in 1865, after the war was over, a
little man came trudging over the mountains
from Harper’s Ferry. He was a tinker and a
Quaker. Somehow a copy of the Waterford
News pleading for a tinker “to mend our
buckets, boilers, coffeepots and tin cups” had
found its way to him and he had set out to
answer the ad. He had walked all the way
from Franklin, Indiana. He got no pots and
pans to fix, but he did get Lizzie. END

|
i
I
|

mae

Be lve

Ji BI3RUARY, 1962

DINNER

TO PLEASE
AMMAN

) CONTINUED FROM PAGE 78

: MENU III

Corned Beef Brisket,
Horseradish Sauce
Cabbage Wedges

Small Boiled Potatoes

Whole Carrots

| Celery Hearts with
Tiny Beets Pickled in Vinegar

/ Fruit-Filled Apple Dumplings

, | Coffee or Tea

CORNED BEEF BRISKET
AND CABBAGE
@)-pound corned
“®>risket of beef
‘li@lery leaves
iy ion, sliced

4 whole peppercorns

3 whole allspice

1 medium-sized
head of cabbage

Ash meat under running cold water to re-
chgmeve brine on surface. Place corned beef in
ige pot and add cold water almost to cover
»jmat. Add a few celery leaves, sliced onion,
eopercorns and allspice. Bring to a boil, cover,
yluce heat and simmer until tender, 4—5
yburs. About !4 hour before the meat is done,
}m excess fat from broth. Wash and trim
yeobage. Cut into 6-8 sections. Cut out most
@ the core. Place on top of meat, cover and
y fk until cabbage is tender but still crisp.
‘ hain both cabbage and meat well before
a@BVing. Boiled carrots and parsley potatoes
ig tally accompany this combination. Serve
‘Ach horseradish sauce. Makes 6-8 servings.

i HORSERADISH SAUCE
Jtup heavy cream
Jeaspoon lemon juice
nd jablespoons prepared
(/mustard

2-3 tablespoons
prepared horse-
radish

Whip cream until stiff. Fold in remaining in-
gredients. Chill until serving time. Makes
about 2 cups sauce.

TINY PICKLED BEETS
1 can (1-lb.-4-0z.)
tiny beets
9 cup cider vinegar
2 tablespoons sugar
2 whole cloves

14 teaspoon salt

3 peppercorns

V4 bay leaf

1 onion, peeled and
thinly sliced

Drain juice from beets, measure 14 cup and
turn into a saucepan. Place the beets in a small
jar. Add the vinegar, sugar, seasonings and
onion to the beet juice. Bring to a boil and
pour over the beets in the jar. Cover and
chill—overnight is best. Serve cold as a relish.
Makes about 2 cups.

FRUIT-FILLED APPLE DUMPLINGS
6 TART APPLES, PEELED AND CORED
Dough:

216 cups sifted flour 34 teaspoon salt
31% teaspoons baking 14 cup shortening

powder 34 cup milk
Filling:
| pound mixed dried 2 teaspoons lemon
fruit juice
114 cups sugar 3 tablespoons
| cup water butter

14 teaspoon cinnamon

Sift together dry ingredients. Cut in shortening
to consistency of coarse meal. Stir in milk with
fork. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured
board. Fold and turn lightly a few times. Chill.
Wash dried fruit well. Place in saucepan.
Cover with about 3 cups water. Bring to a boil,
lower heat and simmer for 14 hour or until
fruits are tender. During last 5 minutes of
cooking add cup sugar. Cool and drain fruit.
Set aside and pit if necessary. Reserve | cup of
the syrup. Place in pan with remaining sugar,
water and rest of ingredients. Bring to a boil
and cook for 3 minutes. Remove from heat.
Roll dough into a rectangle 18” x 12”. Using a
knife or pastry wheel, cut into six 6” squares.
Place an apple on each square and fill center

with the cooked dried fruit. Moisten edges of
squares. Pull corners up over apple and pinch
edges of dough together. Fold back pastry
points at center to show fruit filling. Place 2”
apart in large baking pan and pour syrup
around and over dumplings. Bake in a very hot
oven, 425° F., for 10 minutes, then in a mod-
erate oven, 350° F., for 30-35 minutes, until
apples are tender. Baste frequently with syrup
so dumplings are nicely glazed. Makes 6
servings.

MENU IV

Bavarian Spiced Beef
Sour-Cream Gravy
Potato Pancakes
Red Cabbage with Apples
Winter Pears with Assorted Cheeses
Coffee or Tea

BAVARIAN SPICED BEEF

4-pound piece of 1 cup cooking oil
bottom round ls cup red wine

34 cup finely vinegar
chopped carrot 14 cup firmly packed

34 cup finely brown sugar
chopped onion 1 teaspoon salt

1 clove garlic, peeled 2 tablespoons flour
and crushed 14 cup water

'4 cup finely or red wine
chopped celery 2 cups consommé

’e cup finely chopped 1 cup commercial
white turnip sour cream

le cup finely chopped parsnip

Place meat in deep casserole. Wash, scrape and
prepare vegetables. Pour oil into a skillet. Add
vegetables and cook, stirring gently, for 5 min-
utes. Add vinegar, sugar and salt and cook 5
minutes longer. Cool. Pour vegetable mixture
on meat, spreading evenly over the surface.
Cover tightly and place in refrigerator for 1-2
days. Turn occasionally. To cook, remove
from marinade, pat dry and dust with flour.
Brown well in a little additional oil in a heavy
deep skillet or Dutch oven. Add water—or, if
you like, red wine—consommé and _ the
marinade. Cover and bring to a boil, reduce

141

heat and simmer very gently 2!4-3 hours, or
until meat is tender. Remove meat to a platter
and keep warm. Boil sauce down to about 14
its volume, press through a sieve or food mill.
Reheat, stirring in sour cream. Do not boil.
Slice meat and pass gravy. Makes 6-8 servings.

POTATO PANCAKES

2 pounds potatoes 114 teaspoons salt
(6 medium) l4 teaspoon pepper
2 tablespoons finely 114 teaspoons

chopped onion
2 tablespoons flour
2 eggs, beaten

baking powder
2 tablespoons finely
chopped parsley
3—4 tablespoons butter

About a half hour before serving, wash and
peel potatoes. Cover with cold water. Drain.
Grate and put into a cheesecloth-lined sieve
and press out liquid. Work quickly. Turn into
a dry bowl. Add onion, flour, eggs, salt, pep-
per, baking powder and parsley. Mix well.
Heat enough butter in skillet to coat it well.
Drop potato mixture by spoonfuls into hot
skillet, flatten slightly and sauté slowly until
crisp and golden on both sides. Drain pancakes
on paper toweling and keep warm in oven while
continuing to sauté more. Makes 6 servings.

RED CABBAGE WITH APPLES

1 medium-sized
red cabbage

14 cup red wine
vinegar

1-2 tart apples 16 cup sugar
2 tablespoons butter 14 teaspoon salt
1 onion, peeled and 14 teaspoon pepper

2 cloves
2-3 tablespoons flour

sliced
1 quart water
Wash cabbage; drain. Shred as you would for
coleslaw. Wash, core and peel apples. Chop
coarsely. Melt butter in large kettle or Dutch
oven. Sauté onion and apples a few minutes.
Add water, vinegar, sugar, salt, pepper and
cloves. Stir well. Bring to a boil, add cabbage
and simmer, covered, until tender, about
30-40 minutes. Just before serving, sprinkle
flour on top and stir a few minutes to absorb
liquid. Makes 6 servings. END

New! Roast Pork
with Ocean Spray
Cranberry Sauce!

Roasting Pork Tonight? Dress up
each tender serving with thick slices of Ocean Spray

Cranberry Sauce! Only Ocean Spray can add the

tart-sweet fresh-fruit tang that cuts the richness of pork!
No other sauce, no other condiment, no other flavoring

can come close to the unique, natural taste and texture

of wholesome cranberry sauce. And each juicy slice gives you
14 vitamins and minerals, too! That's why Ocean Spray is
the natural mate for every meat!

LIED
Like “homemade”-style cr
berry sauce? Try our. new;
improved Whole Berry Sauée
OTe ee CC LRU

Be
, rn ca

a 2

rs z

~ WHEN A DAUGHTER MARRIES.”
» > THE WRONG BOY .
e o,%,° » © DR.SPOCK
b elt’s ard To Talk To Teetiagers, :
“e© ° About The Facts Of Life
¢ #,° ‘e SHE LOST 145:POUNDS
SO * 2. s —Now Weighs 103 ©

e y
> THE WOMAN’S MIND .
. - lmekicgs Young Mothers.
<a ~* Tell Whether®
| _ «Babies Deepen

” Married —
~* Love |

ee oi
A DREAM ~
i? ~ 20Fe
MANSIONS —

COMPLETE NOVEL
~ CONDENSED:

IN THIS ISSUE ©
nme

OMe

fashions to favor every bath, fit every trend, enchant every woman

who loves beautiful towels. Whether your Cannons are flowering,

continental, contemporary, they keep their charm and
lor —their gentle texture that’s enhanced by our Beauti-Fluff

process. Created to show with pride, to use with deep pleasure.

CANNON MILLS, INC., 70 WORTH STREET, NEW YORK 13

BaeewurGe GOULD

NORRIS LLOYD

SIDNEY MARGOLIUS

JOURNALITIES

SIDNEY MARGOLIUS, who supplies the
budget analyses for ‘‘How America
Spends Its Money" articles (see
page 136), has written about family
money management since graduat-
ing from Rutgers 28 years ago. After
counseling Journal families, he re-
ports, ‘‘Today’s young people are
harder working, in many ways, than
their parents. But | wish they knewas
much about insurance, taxes and in-
stallment buying as about casserole
cookery and laying cement block.”’

Back in 1938, the women of Amer-
ica thought that $30 a week was
enough for a couple to get married
on, and $44 could support a family
of four. We published these findings
in a series called ‘‘What Do the
Women of America Think?’’ The sur-
vey was conducted by a young man
Named DR. GEORGE HORACE GALLUP,
who had recently established the
American Institute of Public Opinion
in Princeton. For the answers
gleaned by Dr. Gallup from today’s
generation of young mothers, read
“The Woman's Mind’’ (page 72),
third in otr‘current survey series.

Before NORRIS LLOYD was a writer
she was ‘‘a member of that maligned
and misunderstood genus, the sub-
urban housewife.”’ (Species: Win-
netka, Illinois.) A writing housewife
needs patience, she admits—‘‘but
after the youngest child no longer
comes home for lunch, who else in
our society has that great unblem-
ished swatch of time from 8:30 to
3:30?” ‘A Dream of Mansions’'(page
58) is her first novel.

BEATRICE BLACKMAR

CONDENSED NOVEL COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE

ALDREAMBORIMAINSIONS #y.cntmare ctl! sire. i, cella tt be: ats aes ASencl Norris Lloyd 58
STORIES
ULSAN MSN EIN et ceeretirawccceiies Wepre? oh eter rele cmiene tet aa Lucile Vaughan Payne 60
BEARSEIUIN Titers erat (once! cehy sy, cueel ty Pane OR ORE. ci a eee Victoria Case 62
ARTICLES
WHAT EVERY INTELLIGENT WOMAN SHOULD KNOW ABOUT EDUCATION
Sterling M. McMurrin 6
WHEN A YOUNG DAUGHTER MARRIES THE WRONG BOY
Virginia Bartholomew 10
VECEIME DOCTOR) .1chsaveelcm ener tr econ eee Goodrich C. Schauffler, M.D. 12
CAN THIS MARRIAGE BE SAVED? .......... Dorothy Cameron Disney 38
MAKING MARRIAGE WORK .1..5....5..66.% Clifford R. Adams, Ph.D. 46
HOW TO BE LATE FOR EVERYTHING...AND MAKE THEM LIKE IT! Jane Goodsell 48
IT'S HARD TO TALK TO TEENAGERS ABOUT THE FACTS OF LIFE
Benjamin Spock, M.D. 50
THE WOMAN'S MIND...AMERICA’S YOUNG MOTHERS . (Gallup Survey No. 3) 72

HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY

“OUR BABY IS EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS” ........ Neal Gilkyson Stuart 78
SEO TALE YSRORSBABY! ci. ac se cmdaceietcs. ot cain Guerre Eten es Wits Margaret Davidson 130
NEW MONEY PLAN FOR BRAND-NEW PARENTS ....... Sidney Margolius 136

QUIRSREADERS (WRITE! OS): site cenin ve: /) ui tet al veiwuleh hte leiner ist coenea sty oh ker arsten are 4

BUEN EAR SAGO ancteve etic) inp alter. sitetineruck a(S colliethrs,< itr) (emma em nc nL CRn ch nen ae Le 8

BEANE RIDGE eats vires uaa etccMant acme ise ch de tees Charles and Peggy Solomon 22

THERESA MANET Nie HOUSES cncrsralicisite ca Salus cy las: shre Harlan Miller 54

POO IMT VVRIVLALIN 3 a0 <a. fn. otal rele Made dl erie tek a] tchls,.3 sve bret aanailanae a Marcelene Cox 92
FASHION AND BEAUTY

HOW TO DRESS WELL ON PRACTICALLY NOTHING:

WARDROBE PERFECTIONS, INVESTMENT NO.2.......... Bet Hart 16
SLOSIPUsoO MOUNDS ty Her ieccurvercinmteiie nent haistien rene mauris Dawn Crowell Ney 18
THAT MARVELOUS AMERICAN LOOK............. Wilhela Cushman 64
GRAY“FEAN NEL its: ce eleal totic teas tl cm siuays subattentsne) verre Wal marten ce Nora O'Leary 68
SHrRINnG os! PRETMESTJAAIRDOS:. ch a \seaoie eo ubPs ial Jo eiusurn ir isineu dete mter fa’e 70

FOOD
MY FAVORITE DISH .s0%:FISA) 5. <:...c.) aueienia as «tale admin ska Carol Truax 84
SI: SUPERB WAYS. WITH) CHICKEN: tee cti-. ce: oo) cue ne cen 88
FROMEMESTOIVOUE vi selena ck 0 nolne, Sg sMee eRtsn Esta oes sy ails as Marcelene Cox 90
INSPRAISE OF POTAMGES«. « -:is: ses sues clbeiar ia’ ouso ervey emia va Neer caer et in here 98

ARCHITECTURE, HOMEMAKING AND INTERIOR DECORATION

HOUSE FOR VA BUSYSFAMILEN cit trea retteirel lau el le) ee Nels) te John Brenneman 45
REFRESHING REVIVAL: PATTERNED WALLPAPER ........ H. T. Williams 74
SKVEIGHTeKIMCHIEN(: a5) pitch otek ttn st tentsnien rete oe) tee) rues te Margaret Davidson 82
WHATS BUZZING? jas) dh on eiien fete asta: fou cnc e mee asale nists 6 Margaret Davidson 86
SPECIALLY IEORY BABY ctiso-e cece Jepor Shel aden a etc 6) 6: (2 Margaret Davidson 130
POEMS
YOU MAY NOT THINK OF ME AT RIRST: os. 3 ee 3 oe Cosette Middleton 14
(CUIAB. suey 0) ettrothiey core over Woks), oaiio, Koimiottst Vpuael nel ime: Cohen TOMEI te M. Hubbard 52
lial aus? Waa Se sah eoaoa olor: a oeh oo 0 Sum < Blo 6 oL5 Florence B. Jacobs 128

Cover baby is Jeffery James Rankin, hero of this month’s How America Spends

Its Money feature on page 78. Photograph by Fred Lyons.

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GeO) W)iLaD

Ey Delis (Rss

MARCH, 1962

VOL. LXXIX NO. 3

EXECUTIVE EDITOR:
Mary Bass

MANAGING EDITOR:

Curtiss Anderson

ART DIRECTOR:
Tom Heck

ASSOCIATE EDITORS:

Peter Briggs

William McCleery
Mary Lea Page
Wilhela Cushman
William E. Fink
Louella G. Shouer
Margaret Davidson
Nora O'Leary

Glenn Matthew White
Anne Einselen
Margaret Parton
Geraldine Rhoads
Nancy Crawford Wood
John H. Brenneman
Jean Todd Freeman
Nelle Keys Bell

Betty Coe Spicer
Neal Gilkyson Stuart

H. T. Williams
Cynthia Kellogg
Bet Hart

Berenice Connor

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS:

Richard Pratt

Laura Lou Brookman
Dawn Crowell Ney
Margaret Hickey
Barbara Benson

EDITORIAL ASSOCIATES:

John Werner

Ruth Mary Packard
Ruth Shapley Matthews
Joseph Di Pietro
Elizabeth Goetsch
Joyce Posson

Dorothy Anne Robinson
Liane Waite

Anne Fuller

Jim Abel

ASSISTANT EDITORS:

Victoria Harris

Alice Kastberg
Dorothy Markinko
Jean Anderson
Grant Harris

Ann Blackmar

Lee Stowell Cullen
Elaine Ward-Hanna
Carole O’Brien Gaffron
Hazel Owen

Miki Mahoney
Pamela Chamberlain

EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS:

Helen Olchvary
Mary Jane Engel
Kathleen M. Snead
Natalie Schram
Julie Ditchy Crum
Lee Pettee

Bette Holman
Eugenie Thayer
Betty Felton
Margaret Kennedy

,ayer-Pak Vegetables
really make your
salad something

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‘ancy salads come easy with
ayer’Pak: 5 separate layers
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arrots, celery, lima beans, green
eans. All young and tender and full
f flavor. Each vegetable packed in a
sparate layer, with thin dividers of
‘hitest parchment between.

Great for garnish, soups and stews,
90. And perfect for individual side
ishes—to each his favorite!

Buy one can, get one free!

ust send one Layers Pak label to
‘he Larsen Company, Green
ay, Wisconsin. We'll
2nd you a coupon
ood for one can.
imit one per
imily. Offer
<pires De-
»mber 31,
962,

Layer: Pak Salad

rain liquid from 1 can Layer « Pak
2getables. Measure. Add water to
ake 1 cup. Heat to boiling. Add hot
uid to contents 1 package lemon
latin dessert powder. Stir until dis-
lved. Then add 1 cup cold water.
id dash of cayenne, |< cup vinegar,
cup minced onion. Brush inside of
uart (4 cup) mold with salad oil. On

vlate spoon out successive layers of
getables by tipping can on one side

pushing out layers with spoon.

Then arrange Layer + Pak peas in bot-
tom of mold. Cover with gelatin.

Chillin freezer section of refrigerator
10 minutes until firm. Also chill balance
of gelatin in regular refrigerator until
partially thickened and syrupy. Then
to peas in mold, add all at the same
time successive layers of lima beans—
gelatin, green beans—gelatin, celery—
gelatin, carrots—gelatin. Chill until
firm. Unmold, serve with mayonnaise
or sour cream. 1 qt. mold serves 4 to 5.

OUR
READERS

DRINKING AND SMOKING

Dear Editors: Having read so much
comment about smoking, I am curious.
How many of the Journal staff have
stopped smoking? It is my opinion that
the coffee break is nothing more than a
cigarette break. Eliminate one and you
can eliminate both!

Vrs. Perry QuayLe, Madison, Ohio

® Our poll, taken during the coffee break,
reveals: 30) Journal staffers (men and
women) smoke; 22 did smoke but have
stopped; the rest—about a dozen—have

never smoked.—ED.

HWUSBANDS CAN BE PEOPLE

Dear kditors: Vhese suggestions | keep
reading about wives keeping husbands
happy are good in theory but as full of
holes as Swiss cheese. To keep both him-
self and his wife happy, a husband
should:

|. Get out of his bathrobe, shave and
put on his clothes on Sunday morning,
keep his figure instead of becoming a fat
slob.

2. Help his wife to be tidier by picking
up his things, hanging up his clothes and
emptying /is ashtrays.

}. Be more loving and responsive in-
stead of thinking sex is a reasonable
facsimile of love.

1. Not ask, “What the Sam Hill is
this?” when his wile cooks something

new. S.A.K., Hollywood, Calif.

WHY EDITING IS A PLEASURE

Dear Editors: Vhe Journal has been my
friend for years. On its pages | have
found just the information and advice |
needed to see my baby through all the
problems of childhood. As she grew older
and began to have a mind of her own, all
| had to say was, “But, honey, the Jour-
nal says you should!” This was alwz Lys
enough to settle the question and gain
her full co-operation, She was a wonder-
ful little girl and is now a wonderful
woman, I am sure at least part of the
credit should go to the magazine that has
meant so much to me for so many years.

Carrie McCurpy, St. Helena, Calif.

BUDGET, SMUDGET!

Dear Kditors: Since our marriage
eleven years ago, my husband and I have
been on and off budgets several times.
\s the years roll by I discover I read
about other families’ budgets with
amazement, disbelief and even some con-
tempt.

One thing which appears to be lacking
in all budgets is the unexpected bill. How
it is paid is a mystery to me! Does one
rob Peter to pay Paul, or take the needed
amount from the savings account? What

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

happens to the itemized budget when the
unexpected happens?

To me a budget is a fallacy, a fairy
tale and a waste of time.

Mrs. Joun Watker, Union City, Calif.

@ You are not alone—but for most fami-
lies some plan ts a lot better than no

plan.—ED,

WHO'S TRAPPED?

Dear Editors: In defense of happy
housewives, and in rebuttal to those
countless millions (apparently) of self-
pitying, discontented, harried and frus-,
trated homemakers who feel they are #

“trapped,” I would like to say: 4

It takes a great deal of intelligenc ‘e and
just plain common sense to run a home
properly, to entertain graciously, to be a
social asset to one’s husband and a good
example for one’s children. If performing
these tasks is considered so far beneath
so many of today’s women, why do they
marry? Why do they raise families? If
their jobs and premarital freedom meant
so much tothem, why did they give them
up so quickly and so willingly ’ ? There is
no law which makes marri: ie and child
rearing mandatory.

“Trapped” housewives ask, “Where
is my reward, my promotion, my motiva-
tion?” Isn’t the love of a husband and
children a reward? Isn't the growth and
fulfillment of a marriage the promotion?
Isn't respect and pride motivation
enough ?

I and a few like me are content,
happy and fulfilled as wives and mothers.
So there!

lave L. Gorpon, Brookline. Mass.

SO MANY MISTAKES

Dear Editors: A“‘Widows Anonymous”
ought to be established—along with all
the other “‘let’s help each other” organi-
zations. I lost my husband ten years ago,
My four children are now in their teens.
I made so many mistakes in rearing them
alone it is a constant amazement to me
that they are now such wonderful people.

Doris M. Jones, Spokane, Wash.

HOW TO IMPROVE

Dear Editors: Unloved, mistreated and
consequently unhappy wives should not
be urged—even indirectly—to become
better housekeepers. They should be
urged to demand respect, if not love, as
their birthright. Everyone has a basic
need for self-respect. If the wife is
treated as an equal instead of a hired girl,
her housekeeping will automatically im-
prove. Good, conscientious housekeep-
ing is a result of being happy. Good house-
keeping does not of itself automatically
produce happiness.

Rosemary Formosa, San Francisco, Calif.

TEENAGER SPEAKS UP

Dear kditors: | may be only sixteen,
but in my estimation a great many cases §
of “sexual delinquency” are caused by
the girl. Some boys do need psye chiatric
treatment, but I firmly believe most boys
would be fine if girls didn’t tease and
Furthermore,
everyone knows a boy’s passions are

arouse them cexouila

more easily aroused and harder to con-
trol than a girl’s. That is why I do not
always blame the boy. Instead, I believe
many girls need psychiatric treatment.

Liz Jackson, Pocatello, Idaho

@ Psychiatric treatment like, say, pa-
rental common sense applied when and
where it will do the most good ?—ED.

Tonight...
a He-Man
Hot Dish!

easy-made with

VEG-ALL

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Lenten meals-come-easy (and good!) with VEG-ALL"

oA skillet, a few minutes time, and VEG-ALL® Mixed Vegetables.

Easy as that you’re well on the way to a hearty, family-pleasing
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VEG-ALL?® brings you 7 garden-fresh vegetables in one
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QUICK SKILLET SUPPER (Serves 6 to 8)

1 Ib. seasoned ground beef Y2 teaspoon salt
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce 2 cups prepared instant
2 (16 oz.) cans VEG-ALL® mashed potatoes

Mixed Vegetables Ye cup grated cheddar cheese
1 (6 02.) can tomato paste paprika, if desired

Brown meat, adding Worcestershire sauce. Drain VEG-
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VEG-ALL® comes in 2 sizes: 16 oz. and 8 oz.
>» , THE LARSEN COMPANY, Green Bay, Wis.

Buy two cans,

Tuna and VEG-ALL® Medley

Drain 1 can VEG-ALL®. Combine
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¥ cup milk, 2 sliced hard-cooked
eggs, 1 can (7 oz.) tuna, drained.
Heat top-stove or bake at 350° for
30 min. Top with biscuits. Serves 4.

VEG-ALL® Seaside Salad

Drain 1 lb. can salmon or 2 cans tuna.
Mash with fork. Combine lightly
with 2 cups drained VEG-ALL®, 4
cup chopped sweet pickle, 2 diced
hard-cooked eggs. Add mayonnaise
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VEG-ALL® Cheese Bake

Combine 1 8-o0z. pkg. cooked noodles
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Good with deviled eggs or shrimp.

get one FREE!

Just send two VEG-ALL® labels
to: The Larsen Company, Dept. 7,
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Limit one per family. Offer expires —
May 31, 1962.

WHAT EVERY INTELLIGENT WOMAN SHOULD KNOW ABOUT EDUCATION

When we demand in our schools something less than the individual 1s capable of achieving, we rob him of his self-respect.

PUBLIC AFFAIRS
EDITED BY

MARGARET HICKEY

Many of the letters that I receive expressing
concern for education in the United States
come from women. They generally ask, “What
can we do to contribute to the quality of our
schools ?”’ And they want specific answers.

This interest is good. It is necessary. With-
out question it is one of our greatest assets in
the effort to improve our educational estab-
lishment. I sincerely believe that criticism is
an essential ingredient in institutional and
civic improvement. Obviously, the particular
problems faced by our many thousands of in-
dividual schools differ widely. I urge all Amer-
icans to study the problems of their schools
and to work seriously in co-operation with
school officials for the proper solution of those
problems. I am glad to have this opportunity,
through the Ladies’ Home Journal, to offer a
few suggestions to parents for intelligent
action in educational matters.

We all know that there is much to be proud
of in American education. We have countless
schools of high quality with large numbers of
talented, dedicated teachers who are produc-
ing outstanding results with their pupils. But
our general commitment to education is less
than it should be and we are capable of far
more than we now achieve.

Our schools reflect both the strengths and
the weaknesses of our society, for they are
basic elements of the society. I think we need,
in general, to strengthen their academic char-
acter just as we need to strengthen the moral
fiber of our society generally. J believe that, as
a nation, we are guilty of often following an easy
path in our educational policy and practice. Our
educational establishment at many points is re-
laxed and soft. At times we have been far too
willing to tolerate school programs that enter-
tained and amused our children when they
should have been disciplined, directed and in-
spired. In this respect, parents—the general
public—have asked far too little of the schools,
but they are now demanding more. We now
realize that too often we have sacrificed excel-
lence to mediocrity because we have been un-
willing to pay the price that educational ex-
cellence demands—intellectual rigor, disci-
pline and a large commitment of our human
and material resources.

When we demand in our schools something
less than the individual is capable of doing, we
rob him of his self-respect and deprive him, his
community and the nation of the personal and
social dividends that can come from a full de-
velopment of his talents. We will approach a
general excellence in education only when we

have a full appreciation of its worth to the in-
dividual and to society and when a full and
consistent effort to upgrade our schools is
made by everyone—administrators, teachers,
students and the general public. If ever in the
past there has been reason for asking less,
there is none now. If the nation is to meet suc-
cessfully the tasks of our perilous times, we
must demand excellence in every facet of the
educational process.

The central task of a school is the achievement
and dissemination of knowledge and the cultiva-
tion of the intellect. We rightly expect the schools
to cultivate a student's artistic appreciation and
talents and to contribute importantly to his moral
character and sense of civic responsibility. But
these values will be achieved only when a school
centers its efforts on genuine intellectual disct-
pline and insists that basic knowledge in the arts
and sciences and the basic intellectual skills are
its primary purpose.

It is not necessary to devote precious time
and energy to trivial studies and activities to
demonstrate our concern for individuals. It is
not necessary to abandon genuine learning be-
cause we have discovered that schools should
be congenial to students as well as to books,
information and ideas. It 7s undeniably desir-
able for education to meet our changing social
needs. But it does not follow that the cur-
riculum of our schools should provide specific
training for every specific task in the vast va-
riety of communities in our nation. We are in
some difficulty at every level of education—
from kindergarten through graduate school —
because the body of fundamental knowledge
has too often been divided and splintered. The
result is that much time and energy are dis-
sipated on unrewarding peripheral detail and
inconsequential matters that deserve no place
in serious formal education. A few important
subjects pursued intensively will yield better
results than a large number that receive only
superficial treatment.

We must also guard against the tendency to
suppose that our national well-being is ade-
quately served simply by advances in tech-
nology, however important and timely these
may be. Technology alone will not save us,
either as persons or as a nation. Knowledge is
of value for its own sake as well as for its uses.
Moreover, unless basic research in the physi-
cal sciences is consistently and effectively sup-
ported, the capital of knowledge on which our
technology depends will be dangerously di-
minished. But the social sciences, the humani-
ties and the fine arts are as vital to the quality

By STERLING M. McMURRIN

U.S. COMMISSIONER OF EDUCATION

of our society and the strength of our nation
as are engineering and the physical sciences.
We are in danger of suffering a comparative
decline in the quality of our culture unless we
avoid the imbalance in education that is now
developing because of our failure to support
the arts and humanities as we support the
sciences. The study of politics, history and
philosophy, for instance, is essential to the
quality and character of our culture, and there
can be no genuine national strength without
a cultivated appreciation of great literature,
art and music.

We should be grateful for the many highly
qualified and dedicated teachers who serve
our schools. Their contribution to our society
is immeasurable. But in general, the quality of
teaching in our schools and colleges is lower by
far than it should be. The blunt fact is that
many of our teachers are not properly qualified
lo handle the responsibility we have placed on
them. This is our basic educational problem.
Many of our teachers, for instance, lack native
talent for teaching. It is a national scandal,
moreover, that large numbers of them are inade-
quately prepared in the subject matter that they
leach, as well as in the elements of a genuinely
liberal education. This is, in my view, the major
weakness in American education. We should
not be satisfied until this situation is entirely
corrected, as its perpetuation is the surest
guaranty of mediocrity in the classroom.
There will never be a substitute for the teach-
er’s full mastery of his subject.

The problem of quality in teaching will not
be solved merely by increasing teachers’ sal-
aries. But certainly it will never be solved un-
til the average salary levels for teachers are at
least competitive with salary levels in other
employed professions. The teaching profes-
sion must be made attractive enough to bring
to our schools highly talented people in num-
bers adequate to meet the need. For the most
part, our colleges and universities do not de-
vote their best efforts to the education of
teachers. This should be a matter of grave
public concern. Persons of high ability are at-
tracted to professions that demand rigorous
preparation and high competence. The range
of students entering our professional-education
schools encompasses many who have the highest
capabilities, but it also includes far too many
who are near failures in any scholastic endeavor.
In the future every effort must be made to
identify persons of high intellectual compe-
tence and talent in the art of teaching and to
attract them to the CONTINUED ON PAGE 8

~»

‘until Bakeroons

What kookie new cookies! One part is
macaroon, made with tender Baker’s
Fine-Grated Coconut. The other part
is rich chocolate made with tasty
Baker’s German's Sweet Chocolate.
Put ’em together this way and that way
and you have the most winning com-
bination since seven and eleven. Call
them Bakeroons and Baker some soon!

MACAROON MIX:

2 egg whites - Dash of salt - 14 cup
Sugar + 2 tbsp. flour + 2 cups (7-oz.
package) Baker's Fine-Grated Coconut.

Beat egg whites with dash of salt in
small bowl until foamy. Add sugar,
about 1 tbsp. at a time, beating at high
speed until stiff peaks form. Fold in
flour; then blend in the coconut.

Measure 34 cup. Drop from teaspoon
2 inches apart onto greased baking
sheet, making 12 cookies. Drop 4
tsp. of the chocolate mix onto each.
Bake at 375°F. about 12 minutes.

i
}

[never saw such winning cookies...

CHOCOLATE MIX:
2 packages Baker’s German’s Sweet
Chocolate - 214 cups sifted cake flour
- 1Y tsp. baking powder - 34 tsp. salt «
l% cup butter - 2 egg yolks - 14 cup
milk * 1 tsp. vanilla + % cup gran.
sugar + 44 cup light brown sugar.

Chop 1 package of chocolate coarsely.
Set aside; then melt other package
over boiling water. Cool slightly. Meas-
ure sifted flour; add baking powder
and salt. Sift together into large mixing
bowl. Add remaining ingredients. Stir
to blend, then beat about 1 minute.
Stir in chopped chocolate.

Make about 3 dozen cookies by drop-
ping batter from a teaspoon 2 inches
apart on ungreased baking sheet. Drop
about ¥4 tsp. of macaroon mix on each.
Bake at 375 F. for 10 to 12 minutes.

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 6

teaching profession. Their education must be
second to none among the professions.

Many parents ask me what they can do to
improve the status of teachers in their com-
munity. My answer is that nothing artificial
can be done that will have any lasting effect.
We must insist on quality in education. We
should identify and encourage the highly able
and well-qualified teachers who are already in
the schools, and we should urge our children
to make the most of their opportunities to
study with such teachers. Our society is moy-
ing in the direction of a greater appreciation of
the importance of education, and the quality
of our education is improving. These two
factors should ensure a higher status for
teachers in the future.

Lack of student discipline is all too commonly
a major problem for teachers and administrators.
Poor discipline hampers the achievement of the
fundamental purpose of the schools. A teacher
cannot teach well and serve as a policeman too.
Uncivilized behavior among a minority of stu-
dents is, in part at least, a reflection of an un-
disciplined society in undisciplined times. But
in any particular community this situation will
change when enough people want it to change
and make their desires known and are willing
to work, both individually and collectively, to
solve the special problems of the schools in
their neighborhoods.

School officials deserve the support of par-
ents in taking immediate, direct and firm
action in disciplinary measures.

I believe that such groups as the parent-
teacher associations can exert great influence
in improving the quality of the schools. I un-
derstand that sometimes such groups are in-
volved primarily in such activities as small-
scale fund raising and the promotion of minor
social affairs. If so, this is the least they can do.
They can and should and often do tackle the
large problems of student discipline and qual-
ity teaching. The building of character begins
in the home, and if good behavior is cultivated
there, it will be found elsewhere. Good char-
acter, like good education, must be endlessly
sought by parents and teachers alike. Where a
challenging curriculum is coupled with good
teaching, and full support for a rigorous pro-
gram is received from parents and the general
public, better behavior will follow.

There are undoubtedly some parents who
push their children too hard in matters of
discipline, homework, test grades and other
school accomplishments. Some people oc-
casionally express concern about this. Such a
thing can be harmful, of course. In my ob-
servation, however, the parents who push too
hard are in the minority.

Some parents suffer more from homework
than their children do. Ideally, neither should
suffer at all. But work is, by definition, not
play. Homework should be approached with
serious purposes. The quality and effectiveness
of homework is more important for the

FIFTY YEARS AGO

Girl Scouts have been swimming and hiking and help-
ing little old ladies across the street for fifty years.

In March, 1912, both the Girl Scouts and the
Camp Fire Girls were started in America. Hit
records were Alma Gluck singing Home,
Sweet Home and Harry Lauder doing Roamin’
in the Gloamin’. Some Americans in mourning
kept pianos closed for a year; dust and auto-
mobiles were putting bicycles out of style.

“What I Went Throughasa Divorced Woman”
was featured in the March, 1912, Journal, and
“Are Athletics Making Girls Masculine?” by
a Harvard man.

achievement of educational ends than the
amount. What is the homework designed to
accomplish? Any teacher can give a pupil
enough homework to keep him busy all night.
Parents who take a sincere interest in this mat-
ter will soon learn to distinguish between a
useful amount of well-directed homework and
masses of sheer busywork.

Some time ago I made a public statement
that “too often we fail to elicit from both our
students and teachers their best efforts.” I do
not equate “best efforts’’ with work that is ed-
ucationally meaningless; to me the “best ef-
forts’ of both teachers and students have to
do with the quality of the accomplishments in
teaching and learning. We have certainly failed
to elicit from the vast majority of teachers and
the vast majority of students their full scholarly
commitment to educational work. Iam perfectly
willing to extend this to those of us who are
parents. We have not elicited our own best ef-

forts either.

Incidentally, my statement has sometimes
been interpreted as suggesting that our teachers
do not work hard enough. Most of the teachers
whom I have known are overworked. Teach-
ing is a far greater drain on one’s physical and
mental energies than most laymen realize.
Eliciting the best efforts of teachers sometimes
requires cutting down their work load in terms
of students and hours.

I think it would be most unfortunate if in
the public mind quality education became
synonymous with college-preparatory courses
in our secondary schools. Certainly it would be
unwise, as well as futile, to attempt to educate
all children in the same way for the same pur-
pose. It would be folly not to recognize indi-
vidual differences and the variety of social needs
and to plan our institutions and their curricula
accordingly. Many schools have instituted a
variety of plans for ability grouping. Some
secondary schools have four-track systems, or
other multitrack systems, for placing students
in an educational context in which each can
progress best. Some schools have enrichment
programs, advanced placement classes and
other means for individual guidance and help.
It is not easy to determine by what methods,
plans, programs or techniques teaching for in-
dividual differences can best be accomplished
in particular schools, but I recognize that it
must be done. This is part of the general task
of teaching, and it has always been done by
good teachers, even in the one-room school.

I recently commented on this matter in a
statement to the Committee on Appropria-
tions of the House of Representatives: ““To the
extent that we have failed to challenge the full
capabilities of our students, from kinder-
garten through graduate school, we have be-
trayed the democratic ideal that is so precious
to us. The meaning of democracy in education
is not found in a dead-leveling process that
attempts to conform all men to simple equality.
We believe not that all men are of equal ca-
pacity, but that all are entitled to the oppor-
tunity to develop fully such capacities as they

““How can I remove the brown streak around
my neck?” asks the woman who habitually
wears brown. “Rub it with olive oil.”

“Never buy a hat at the end of a shopping
tour, when your're tired out.”

The new spring silks: foulard, surah, faille and
taffeta; the new colors: ‘‘a deep rose pink
called American Beauty, and cerise and coral.”
“Every woman wants a neck fichu of silk with
frills of white chiffon.”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

have. We combine this with a belief in the in
herent dignity of the individual person. These
are powerful ideas with tremendous implica
tions. They mean, certainly, that the creative
artist, the professional person and the artisan
alike deserve the full esteem of their fello
men and that every man is entitled to his
measure of self-respect who is doing his best in
a vocation that contributes to the total life of
our society.”

There is a sense in which every person in a
democratic society is entitled to the privilege
of attempting an important task, even thoug)
he may fail. Sometimes failure is itself an im:
portant factor in a person’s education. On the
other hand, we must recognize that students
vary greatly in their talents and intellectug

capacity, and it is highly unrealistic to assum

that everyone should have a college or unive
sity education.

One of our great problems is to provide
post-high-school educational facilities that are
adequate to satisfy the educational needs of
those young people who, for one cause or a
other, do not qualify for college work. Largé
numbers of these students can qualify for hig
level vocational education of one kind or an
other. They are entitled to it and our societ
cannot afford to deprive them of it becaus
they are a large part of its basic huma
resource.

The opportunity for education is a privilege
and this fact should be impressed on children,
But education is also a responsibility. It is no
a matter of casual concern. We owe our chil
dren the best education we are capable of giving
them; the quality of their education is importa
not only for them, but also for their communities \¢
the nation and the world. Our educational crisigl
has a spiritual dimension in that it relates to thé
uncertainties and anxieties that now so fr
quently characterize our people in their quest foup
a meaningful existence where they are devoted
to ends worthy of achievement. Education is a
important bearer of the spiritual life, broadl
conceived as a life of purpose and value. Eduji
cation is the chief creator, protector and criti
of those values that mark our culture in iff
highest reaches, that determine in large meas}
ure what will be genuinely precious to the in}
dividual and worth the price of his commit
ment and pursuit.

American education is now becoming a majo
testing ground for democracy. It is a basic as)
sumption of the democratic political ideal tha |
what is good for the individual is also good foi)
society as a whole. It is the faith of a free demo}\
cratic society that when the good of the ind |
vidual is intelligently pursued, the well-being 0
the total social order is in some way enhancea|
The task facing the leaders of American educa] —
tion is so to organize and administer o i
educational institutions that when the best in}
terests of every individual are served t
quality of our culture is improved and t
character of our nation is strengthened. This?

a task every individual citizen, and certain
the parents of every school child, must sha

IN THE JOURNAL

‘

“There are no sports that make women mal
culine except boxing, baseball, wrestlin)
basketball, ice hockey, water polo and Rugt
football,” believes Harvard’s Dr. Sargent. —

“Providing for the Linen Chest: Individ
bath towels are much used these days, W
every precaution is taken to have thin
sanitary.” |

“Single-bed sheets cost 35 cents; double,
cents. A down quilt comes high—at least 8
i

TINTED COCONUT—Place flaked coconut in a plastic bag.
Add 2-3 drops Red, Green, Blue or Yellow Food Color. Toss
until coconut is well tinted. If a darker shade is desired,
add 1-2 drops more color. Use to top frosted cupcakes.

Give Per Pati’
with color and flavor!

New hospitality idea... cookies with your Easter eggs! Youngsters love them.
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COOKIES: Make cookies following your favorite recipe. Frost,
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COOKIE FROSTING: Mix % cup soft butter, 1 egg yolk, dash
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One night last spring my seventeen-year-old
midnight. “Be

“I’m going to marry

daughter awakened me at
brave, mother,”’ she said.
Johnny. And I’m sorry, mother, but I’m not

going to college. Look.’? She showed me the
small engagement ring on her—to me—so yul-
nerable hand. Then she threw herself into my

arms and said, ““Oh, mother! Please be glad.”

And in the indescribable mixture of feelings
that ewer over me all I could say, inanely,
was, ‘How could Johnny pay for such a ring?”
> said Sally.

Every mother knows how difficult it is to

i Taseuliment plan,’

bear the hurts and bruises her children suffer.
How much more painful it is to see them com-
ing, and to be helpless to avert them.

To me, Sally was heading straight for disas-
ter. L could not be what she asked me to be—
glad. On the contrary, I was deeply frightened.
Not only

Johnny was unthinkable.

was Sally much too young. But

Johnny is twenty, and works in the gas sta-
tion. He has the kind of good looks one seems
He left

His family are

to see most often on street corners.
high school after two years.
among the newer Americans who are more at
home in their native language than in Eng-
lish. They live upstairs over his father’s vege-
table store in the small foreign part of our
suburb. My total reaction was, This is impos-
sible! But as I looked at Saliy’s enraptured
face, Lsaw that my young daughter clearly be-
lieved that the moon had dropped into her
eager hands. And I realized that I had to con-
ceal my panic, and that a great deal depended
on the skill and delicacy with which I handled
the situation.

I simply kissed her and said that I knew
what a romantic experience a proposal of mar-
riage was, but that marriage required tremen-
dous maturity and judgment, and that we
would talk it over when her father returned

from his business trip.

Sally hugged me and floated off on a cloud of

illusion

And I stared at the ceiling and tried to un-
derstand how such an unbelievable situation
could have come about.

When Sally began to have dates with Johnny,
less than a year ago, | was disturbed. I felt that
she was depriving herself of good times with
her lifelong friends, just at a time when such
relationships were beginning to have adult
importance. When I suggested this to her, she
simply said, ‘‘But mother, I like him so much

more than anyone else.

Although I was baffled at Sally’s choice, I

was afraid that if I interfered too seriously I
would simply make Johnny more desirable in
Sally’s eyes. So I reluctantly accepted what I
I kept an

assumed was a phase. Meantime,

extra-strict watch over where Sally went, and
insisted on a rather early curfew.

But marriage! It had never, in the depths
of those free-floating fears parents sometimes
have about their children’s futures, occurred
to me that marriage to a boy like Johnny was
a remote possibility. Sally’s husband? I
couldn't bear to think of it.

The obvious difference between Johnny’s
and Sally’s backgrounds naturally distressed
me. But even more frightening to me was the
fact that he had not had the will to work for
an education. Why had he left school after
only two years, when it was not an absolute
economic necessity? If the temptation to have
some ready spending money and his own car
outweighed the need for learning, what could
his long-range values be?

Many boys in Johnny’s situation work for
an education and develop into responsible
men. But | saw no such reassuring signs in
Johnny. His car was too polished, and his
grammar too unpolished, for me to have much
faith in his potential for growth. And the fact
that he had rushed into giving Sally an en-
gagement ring, without first actually earning
it, did not speak well for his self-discipline. As
for his native intelligence, I did not really
know him well enough to judge, but I had no
grounds for optimism. All I saw was an un-
tried boy with no visible ambition, no inter-
ests beyond automobiles and my Sally, and a
severely limited future.

What did Sally see in him? It was not as
though Johnny were the first boy to pay seri-
ous attention to her. Sally is pretty enough to
attract more than her share of boys, and had

always been a member of a lively group of

youngsters. Until last year, when she had be-
gun to pass up most of her other friends in
favor of Johnny, we had never had a moment
of “trouble”? with her. She was co-operative
and affectionate—but she did have a quiet will
of her wn.

Now I remembered how tenaciously she had
tried to persuade me that she would net want
to go to college, and preferred to take the sec-
retarial course. But Linsisted that she prepare
for college, on the ground that she couldn’t be
sure at thirteen what she would want at eight-

een. Since last year she had been registered in

our state university, and I had still been hop-
ing that she would enter in the fall.

Could this be one of the factors causing
Sally to want to reject the sort of life that
seemed so normal and happy for her? Where
had I failed? What had I done to bring Sally to
such a decision?

My fear and my imagination ran away with
me. I pictured Sally in a shabby little apart-
ment, struggling to make ends meet and for-
ever deprived of security. I visualized her with
a baby—or babies—she could never dress prop-
erly or train properly or educate properly. I
had a moment of horror when I thought, But
suppose the children took after Johnny! lsud-
denly realized that Johnny’s mother would be
their grandmother too.

I could not bear it.

I fell asleep with a primitive wish to hurl
myself on Sally bodily, and say, ‘‘No! I won’t
let you! | won’t let you be hurt.”’

Sally’s father was due back the next evening,
and I was as worried about his reaction as I
was about the problem itself. Roger is very
conservative, and had drawn back from Johnny
in baffled distaste when Sally had first brought
him home. He had been all for flatly forbid-
ding Sally to see Johnny at all.

Now his reaction was just as violent as I had
been afraid it would be. At first he simply re-

fused to believe it. It was beyond his power of

imagination. But when I finally and painfully
convinced him that Sally was deadly serious,
he almost shouted:

“Tt will not have it! We’ll send her away to
school. Switzerland, if necessary. The thing is
preposterous.”

Eventually, after hours of unhappy discus-
sion, and endless and fruitless asking of each
other “But why? Where did we go wrong as
parents?” we agreed on a strategy.

We decided, first, that we would acknowl-
edge the fact that in a very short time Sally
would be legally free to marry whom she chose.
We had to. But we resolved that we would use
this time to summon every means possible to
make Sally see—clearly see—the serious risks
that faced her.

We told each other that we must be patient,
loving and sympathetic; and that we must not
give way to that part of our feelings that was
outraged anger at Johnny’s—to us—audacity.
We reminded that Sally
Johnny—and that she would feel that any-
thing that attacked him attacked her. (Al-
CONTINUED ON PAGE 92

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though I am quite

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““T have come down
with German measles,
Doctor, and I know
what that can do to my
unborn baby. Surely
you will perform a

therapeutic abortion?”

“Mrs. Bassett is on the phone,” the
voice of the doctor’s secretary said over the
intercom. “‘She is a new obstetrical pa-
tient —she’s due in tomorrow for her second
visit. She says she has been exposed to
German measles. She wonders what she
ought to do.”

“Let me talk to her,’ the doctor said.
‘*This may be important.”

Mrs. Bassett, who had impressed the
doctor on her initial interview as being 1n-
telligent and well informed, spoke concisely
and to the point. The teenager they had
left the previous evening with their little
girls, three and five, had appeared ill when
the Bassetts arrived home. This morning
Mrs. Bassett had inquired how the baby-
sitter was, had been told she apparently
had German measles. “I thought I ought to
let you know right away, Doctor.”

“T’m glad you did, Mrs. Bassett. Have
you ever had German measles?”

“T have been trying to think, but I can’t
be sure. I had an illness when I was about
eight; they always spoke of it as measles.
Nobody ever said what kind, though, and
my mother died when I was ten. But Doc-
tor, can’t you give me that new measles
vaccine I’ve been reading about, just in
case ?”’

“The vaccine you mention is for the reg-
ular, or ten-day measles. It would have no
effect on German measles. Some experi-
mental work has been done with blood
taken from women known to have had
German measles, and from sensitized ani-
mals, but the serum derived from it is not
available for general use.

“We do, though, have something called
immune serum globulin. It is serum col-
lected in large pools from adults who are
presumed to have developed a wide range
of immunities. When injected into exposed
individuals, it may be expected to ward off
certain kinds of. infection. Unfortunately,
the results with rubella—that’s the tech-
nical name for German measles, as I
imagine you know—haven’t been too en-
couraging. Besides, there isn’t much of the
serum, and it’s expensive. However, some-

times local boards of health dispense it
without charge. I can check on that, see if I
can locate some. My secretary tells me you
are to come in tomorrow anyway.”

“But ought I to come to your office? I
wouldn’t want to infect any of your other
pregnant patients!”

“You haven’t anything yet to infect
them with, Mrs. Bassett. It takes from
twelve to fourteen days for the German
measles to develop, and we don’t know that
you will develop it. I would suggest that
you ask your pediatrician to see the baby-
sitter today, find out if she really has Ger-
man measles. Meantime, see if you can
learn what kind of measles you had.”’

When she came in the next day, Mrs.
Bassett reported that her pediatrician had
diagnosed the baby-sitter’s illness as Ger-
man measles, but that she had been unable
to learn any more about the kind of measles
she herself had had as a child. ‘“‘Daddy says
they didn’t call a doctor. Mother just kept
me in bed in a dark room until the rash had
gone away.”

“It’s too bad a doctor wasn’t brought in,
for the sake of establishing a definite di-
agnosis, if for no other reason. In the case of
girls, 1t can be so important to know, in
later life. But I see by your record that you
are in the eighth week of pregnancy now.
You will be in the tenth week before you
can possibly come down with German
measles, if you do.”’

“That’s right, Doctor.”

“Also, I succeeded in locating some of the
immune serum globulin, and I’ll give you
an injection, for whatever good it may do.
Of course it will be fine for your little girls
to have the German measles, get it over
with.” Mrs. Bassett nodded, as though ev-
erything were perfectly clear to her.

The doctor was not surprised when Mr.
Bassett called two weeks later to say that
his wife had come down with German
measles, the day after symptoms had ap-
peared in their two daughters. Mrs. Bas-
sett’s emotional reaction, however, as Mr.
Bassett described it over the phone, was
unexpected.

ME
DOCTOR

By GOODRICH C. SCHAUFFLER, M.D.

“Our pediatrician said Marguerite has a
very light rash—but almost surely German
measles. But she went all to pieces as soon
as he left. She’s been begging me to call
you, says she’ll have to have a therapeutic
abortion right away. I know you don’t
make house calls ordinarily, Doctor. But I
can’t calm her down, and I’m afraid this
hysteria is bad for her.”’

The doctor blamed himself for not hav-
ing gone into matters more thoroughly with
Mrs. Bassett. She had seemed so unwor-
ried, so knowledgeable. Evidently she had
not understood as much as he had thought,
and he realized that her pregnant condition
would make her more vulnerable to disturb-
ing news. “‘I’ll come out, Mr. Bassett, the
first moment I can get away.” ...

“‘She’s quieter now,’’ Mr. Bassett said as
he let the doctor in. “She cheered up a lot
when I told her you were coming. But this
thing is way beyond me. She keeps saying
that if we let our baby be born, it will be de-
fective—blind, deaf, maybe feebleminded!
It sounds to me as if she’s delirious.”’

Mrs. Bassett began to sob as soon as she
saw the doctor. ““The serum didn’t work,
Doctor! You will do a therapeutic abor-
tion, won’t you?”

The doctor set down his bag and looked
about for a chair. “‘Mrs. Bassett, I believe
we have been talking at cross-purposes. I
took it for granted you knew the danger
wasn’t very great in your case. Your hus-
band says he doesn’t understand any of it.
Suppose we go over the matter from the
beginning, find out where you and I got off
the track.”’

‘“T wish you would, Doctor,” Mrs. Bas-
sett said. ‘‘I can’t make Harry believe there
is any danger at all.”

“Tt’s quite true,” the doctor explained
to Mr. Bassett, “‘that considerable damage
can be done to a baby if the mother incurs
German measles in the first three months of
pregnancy. That is the so-called embryonic
stage, when the fertilized ovum is turning
into a tiny human being. The first investi-
gators—the discovery was made in the
early 1940’s—put

CONTINUED ON PAGE 14

s-~*

hie
Wyo

Planning to invest?

How smart women

choose a

stock broker

(and what to say on the first visit)

In talking with your broker, you'll be dis-
cussing money matters, the hopes and goals
of yourself and your family, studying infor-
mation together, exchanging ideas on which
you are going to base important decisions.

‘So choosing your broker deserves care.

Perhaps you’ll want to choose a broker
because his office is conveniently nearby; or
one in whom a friend has confidence. Some
firms have women as well as men brokers.
(More and more women are entering this

| once-all-male field.)

But, however you start this choosing proc-
jess, don’t be hasty. Ask yourself these few
‘| questions:

Would you go to a broker who was trained

to do his job? Would you insist on it, in fact?
| Of course you would.

Some brokers, before being allowed to offer
opinions, have had to pass examinations on
their knowledge of the securities business,
and meet training requirements set by the
New York Stock Exchange. Would you prefer

) such a broker?

_ How do you find him (or her)?

_ A good way is to look in the Yellow Pages
of the telephone directory. Member Firms

are listed under “‘New York Stock Exchange”’
in the Stock Broker section.

When you call, ask to speak toa Registered
Representative. Make an appointment to
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On this first visit, don’t hesitate to talk
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What do you hope that your investment
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You will want to ask him about stocks
which seem to have a good chance to grow
in value over the years. You might decide on
a particular stock with the idea of getting
dividends for extra income during the year.
He might suggest bonds, which usually offer
greater safety of income and principal.

Or, if you want to invest regularly, he
might suggest the Monthly Investment
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little as $40 every three months.

Keep in mind when you talk to him that
although some companies have paid divi-
dends consistently for 25 years or more,
there are no guarantees. A company may not

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If you go into it with your eyes open to
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why not do it right, with the help of a Mem-
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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 12

the damage rate as high as 60 to 90 per cent.
There was a tendency then to perform a good
many therapeutic abortions.”

Mr. Bassett interrupted. “Just what do you
mean by damage, Doctor?”

““Among the babies who are affected, it’s
eye trouble in about 50 per cent. This can be
anything from complete cataract, deformities
of the retina or other incurable conditions, to
something very slight. Ear defects are also
noted frequently in some cases. But probably
next most common after eye defects are heart
conditions. After that come brain defects,
peculiarities in the blood-manufacturing or-
gans, or teeth or bones. Cases have been re-
corded of extra fingers and toes. It all depends
on what part of the embryo is being formed
at the time the mother comes down with the
disease, and the severity of the insult. That’s
our name for any influence harmful to the un-
born. A number of these conditions are now
correctable by modern surgery, but by no
means all. It is not unusual even in these
days for a baby to be aborted or miscarried
or born dead.”

Mrs. Bassett had nodded her head vigor-
ously from time to time. This part was familiar
to her. But seeing Mr. Bassett’s expression,
the doctor continued quickly, “We know now
that those first percentages were set way too
high. In the years since, many babies have
been surveyed closely, by trained observers,
when their mothers had had German measles
during the pregnancy. Families have been
followed for years. It has been proved that
the big majority of babies are not damaged at
all, or else very slightly. The danger is great-
est if the mother incurs rubella in the first few
weeks of pregnancy, say the first five. Around
50 per cent of these babies may be born with
defects, or aborted or stillborn. That is pretty
hard, I admit.

“But after the fifth week, the danger gets
less with every day that goes by. The over-all
damage between the fifth and thirteenth weeks
is set at somewhere between 12 per cent and
15 per cent, on a descending scale. After the
twelfth or thirteenth week, by which time the
embryo is fully formed, there is no danger to
the baby at all. You were in your eighth week
when you were exposed, Mrs. Bassett, and I
knew you would be in your tenth week be-
fore you could possibly come down with the
disease. I’m sorry I didn’t make that more
definite.”

“T didn’t know about that descending scale
of damage, Doctor. And I guess I believed the
serum would protect me, in spite of what you
said.”

“But German measles hardly makes you
sick at all,’ Mr. Bassett protested. ‘““‘How can
it do all those things to a baby in the womb?
Wouldn’t a bad attack of the regular, old-
fashioned measles be worse?”

“We are becoming suspicious today of any
infectious disease acquired by the mother in
early pregnancy, especially if it is a severe
attack. High fevers due to any cause may in-
duce spontaneous abortions, or, in rare cases,
certain types of defects in the baby. But that
seems to be a different business. For reasons
we don’t understand, the embryo, in process
of formation, seems to have a special sensitiv-
ity to the rubella virus.”

“Then why haven’t they got a vaccine or
something to protect expectant mothers
against rubella, Doctor?’ demanded Mr.
Bassett.

SPCEN

Sone of our most eminent scientists have
been trying to find that ‘something,’ Mr.
Bassett. But so far they haven’t succeeded in
identifying the rubella virus. They can’t pro-
duce a vaccine to fight it until they know what
they are fighting.”

“Are you telling me that with all the won-
ders of modern medicine, there isn’t any way
to keep babies from being damaged or killed
by this measly little rubella virus?”

“Indeed there is, Mr. Bassett, but it is not
a thing we doctors can do. People must attend
to it for themselves. If parents would see to
it that every girl has rubella before she reaches
the point of marrying, or if young women
would make sure they’ve had it before they
marry, all our expectant mothers would be

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

immune. Any menace to their babies fro!
German measles would be done away wit

“That makes sense,’ Mr. Bassett said. ‘
doesn’t help us with our problem, thoug
Were you implying that doctors don’t ¢
therapeutic abortions any more in the
cases ?””

“One might imagine a situation where
woman already has had four or more c
dren and comes down with definite, prove
rubella during the first five weeks, the rea
dangerous ones. It might be such a worry
her as actually to endanger her health.
therapeutic abortion might be consideré
justifiable on those grounds, especially sin
she could have normal babies later on. Ho
ever, your chances of having a perfectly mo
mal baby are 90 per cent or better. I would p
consent to a therapeutic abortion under su¢
circumstances, though you might be able
find someone who would.”

There was a silence. Then Mr. Bassett sai
“Those odds sound good to me. But Ma
guerite is the one to consider. How about

YOU MAY NOT
THINK OF ME
AT FIRST

By COSETTE MIDDLETON

You may not think of me at first
When there are others to attend

Your every need: your hunger, thirst,
The leisure hours you have to spend.

You may not need me right away
When pleasure opens like a fan,

When every moment of the day
Falls neatly in your master plan.

But even kaleidoscopes grow dull,
And carousels unwind and stop;

When one has climbed the pinnacle
There’s nothing, nothing at the top.

Then you will think of me and find
My name a natural one to cry—

| haven't quite made up my mind
Whether or not | shall reply.

honey? Will you be worrying yourself sic
until the baby is born?”

““No,”’ Mrs. Bassett said slowly, “I won’
I’ve been thinking. This may be the boy we’
been wanting, and we may never have anoth¢
one. If he’s born with a defect, maybe it ca
be corrected. If it can’t, we will love him j
as much, and do all we can to help him ha
a good life.”

Her decision made, Mrs. Bassett we
through the rest of her pregnancy serenely. Tk
baby proved to be another girl. But any di!
appointment her parents might have felt o
that score was more than counterbalanced b
the fact that the newborn was healthy an
perfectly formed. Internal imperfections ai
not always detectable at birth. But the Ba
setts’ pediatrician knew about the situatior
he would be watchful. This baby would £
examined more frequently than usual duri
the first few years.

The second morning after the baby’s birtl
the doctor came into Mrs. Bassett’s roo)
told her he had something to ask of he
“Your older girls are immune now to Germa
measles, and so are you. Make it your busine!
to see that the little new one has Germai
measles before she reaches marriage age. The
she’ll never have to go through the kind ¢
worry and upset you went through.”

“Doctor,” said Mrs. Bassett soberly, “tk
minute my pediatrician says she is old enoug
to have German measles, I’ll expose her t
every case I hear of in the neighborhood!”

Next month Dr. Schauffler discusses new methods |
saving babies’ lives.

calls tonight”

A Long Distance visit with Grandma
turns the whole room bright as
sunbeams. It’s a gift of happiness

for a little girl... and a gift you can
give any time. Any time at all.

“I hope Grandma

ee eee

&.*

<u REMC RAPA REINA RCN RIOD HIRES eAnaanenmntennesss wel OE

FRANCES GILL

WARDROBE PERFECTIONS...INVESTMENT No. 2 How to dress well on practically nothing! By BET HART

Barbara J. takes the second step toward her wardrobe ideal. This
one (always a giant step in any wardrobe) is buying a coat. Since
she took a definite color direction, turquoise, with her suit pur-
chase last month, her move now is toward a neutral shade.
Barbara J. looks for the most becoming color, the prettiest
fabric and a shape with fashion and flattery. She looks and
finds the coat that has all these with a price tag that takes
only 35 of her fashion $’s. Spring accessories highlight both

major investments.

’

Beige handbag adds 3 more $’s to Barbara J.’s wardrobe

total. Color accent today: bright blue hair cockade.

White straw off-the-face hat goes prettily with beige coat,

A wll Ns
ee %

turquoise suit, is $7.95.

Potal $’s for Barbara J.’s spring wardrobe, including her
turquoise suit with matching blouse and searf, her coat and

new accessories: $72.85.

HAT BY MADCAPS, COAT BY SYONEY BITTERMAN

favored five...

Top to bottom:

One perfect gadabout—MERRIL.
Soft-textured unlined leather
in bone, caramel or black.

One perfect town pump—TRINIDAD.
Supple unlined calf in white,
bone or black.

s One perfect suit shoe—MAYWOOD.
Caramel and bone, black and malt or
green mist unlined calf.

One perfect dress-up pump—KRISTEN.
ee aL Cues eMC ae dee

pulmo i a
Brau M ICSC
fashion and fit

eae
Sa re eC

Veli mcitt

“T hated my appearance and myself. I knew that I was repulsive. And I had no interest in life. But then

BY DAWN CROWELL NEY

BEAUTY EDITOR

Nineteen-year-old Jolene White, of
Gary, Indiana, tells her diet story:

Until I dieted and reduced from
248 pounds to my present 103, I
was convinced I could never be
anything except hopelessly ugly.
Beyond being hideously fat, exces-
sive amounts of rich, greasy foods
caused my complexion to be con-
stantly broken out. My hair was
oily and unmanageable. Naturally,
I couldn’t find pretty teen-type
clothes in the matronly size I had
to wear. Discouraged, I wore no
makeup except lipstick. My ap-
pearance was further distorted by
a misshapen mouth filled with
crooked teeth. The misery I felt
over the way I looked was such
that my school marks suffered.

As a child I had been very
skinny. Mother worried about me
and tried to encourage me to eat
by sweetening my foods, to the
point of sprinkling sugar on vege-
tables. I soon had an uncontrol-
lable appetite. By the time I was
in seventh grade I weighed 179
pounds, and by my sophomore
year I had reached my whopping
248. I hated gym because of the
voluminous uniforms I had to
wear. I never took part in extra-
curricular activities. On physical-
exam days, I often stayed home
pretending to be sick so I wouldn’t
have to be weighed in front of
others. My classmates had guess-
ing games about my weight and
made fun of me. I was always loud
and boisterous in school, trying to
pretend I didn’t care about the
way I looked. But at home I was
overly sensitive and angry. For
no reason I would start terrible
fights with my family and then
stalk off to lock myself in my bed-
room, where I would brood and
sulk for hours.

In an effort to escape from my-
self I did a lot of pretending. For
instance, I pretended mirrors dis-
torted my appearance and that I

OUNDS'

ROGER PRIGENT a
wasn’t really that bad. I made up }
an imaginary beau and told class-
mates I dated him steadily. He was
from out of town, which explained
why I never went to local parties
or school dances. Mother had been
pretty and popular as a young girl
and had saved a class ring an old
beau had given her. I borrowed the
ring and wore it to school, hoping
its presence would convince others
I was really dating. It didn’t.

Actually, I never went out in the
evening except to baby-sit. I spent
my earnings on fattening foods.
When money ran out I visited my
Aunt Helen, who always provided
me with plenty of sandwiches,
cookies and cake. Aunt Helen half-
_ heartedly tried to discourage me
a from eating so much, but she
weighed 300 pounds herself, so her
arguments were never convincing.
My only real friend was a girl who
also weighed over 200 pounds. To-
gether, we had the nickname of
“Tons of Fun.”

Social life, for me, centered ex-
clusively on Girl Scout activities.
CONTINUED ON PAGE 20

JOLENE WHITE—
BEFORE AND AFTER MEASUREMENTS

BEFORE AFTER
248 pounds Weight 103 pounds
5/4144” Height 5/4”
48” Bust 3416’ (with

padded bra)
39” Waist 2214!
49” Hips 321K’
261% Dress Size 6or8
9D Shoe Size 7%o0r8B

Above: I was close to 200 pounds when
this picture was taken. It’s easy to see
that I didn’t care about the way I looked. ©
Left: Here I am at 103 pounds. As
my figure improved, the world became
a new and wonderful place for me.

Oleg Cassini ©

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 18

With this nice group I could “‘be myself.” I
even joined the softball team, but I was too
fat to run fast. The only way I ever made it to
first base was to hit a home run. In fact, it
was the Girl Scouts that got me off to my real
diet start. There was to be a Scout Roundup
in Colorado the summer following my sopho-
more year in high school. I wanted desper-
ately to go, but was warned that I couldn't if
the time came and I was too fat to fit into a
regulation uniform. Spurred on by my desire
to be part of the Roundup, I lost 50 pounds by
the comparatively simple method of cutting
out candy bars, other sweets and between-
meal snacks. It took mea year, but I got down
to 198 and was finally able to squeeze into the
largest Scout uniform just in time. That sum-
mer I continued to lose a little and came home
weighing a “trim” 187 pounds—a weight I
maintained through my junior year. As a re-
sult, I received my first real-life invitation
from a boy. He asked me to go to the senior
prom with him. I should have been thrilled.
After all, my slimmer, prettier sisters had been
invited to every school dance. But the fact is
the boy was fatter than I was, his complexion
was worse, and I learned that he had invited
and been turned down by every girl in class
before he invited me. Pride, combined with
lack of enthusiasm for the boy, prompted me
to decline his invitation too. To console my-
self, I went home and ate a cherry pie and a
quart of ice cream.

Thoughts of actually attending a school
prom with an attractive date danced through
my head all summer long. I was determined to
go to at least one and obviously, with my senior
year coming up, it was my last chance. On the
day school opened in September I started my
first full-fledged diet. And I never stopped un-
til | got down to my present 103 pounds.

From the beginning, my parents were
thrilled for me. Helpfully mother, who had
studied dietetics, planned all my diet meals, al-
lowing 1000 calories per day. Tactfully, she
persuaded me to have my teeth fixed at the
same time. My dentist was marvelously kind
and encouraging, too, reassuring me time and
time again that I would have a pretty smile if I
co-operated with him by regularly keeping ap-
pointments and wearing the braces he pre-
scribed. As the months went by, he became
increasingly enthusiastic about my appear-
ance. “My, how preity you are getting to be,”
he would often exclaim, noting that I was
slimming down. As I look back, I realize I was
probably his homeliest patient. But at the
time he convinced me that I was an attractive
human being, and I thrived on his thoughtful
interest and help. Even the kids in school who
used to tease me unmercifully began to com-
pliment me, and I was never once kidded
about having to wear braces.

le the beginning, I thought I would starve
on my diet. Compared with what I had been
eating, it is easy to see why. A typical prediet
breakfast used to consist of stacks of pan-
cakes (ten at a time) laden with butter and
syrup. Or fried eggs and Canadian bacon with
toast, jelly and three glasses of milk. Some-
times I'd eat six or eight sweet rolls in the
morning. For lunch I'd have three sandwiches
(usually peanut-butter), double portions of
rich desserts and another couple of glasses of
milk. After school, more sandwiches, along
with soda pop, pie or cake. A favorite dinner
used to be huge helpings of fried chicken and
mashed potatoes with gravy. Occasionally I'd
eat three frozen dinners at a time! Before bed-
time I ate snacks of potato chips, candy bars
and ice cream. I was barely able to waddle off
to bed.

In contrast, my diet meals were selected
from the following low-calorie eating plan, de-
vised by mother and approved by my doctor:

Breakfast

1 piece fresh fruit or 34 glass unsweetened
fruit juice

1 poached or soft-cooked egg

1 piece any kind of toast

1 pat butter (divided between the egg
and the toast)

| glass (8-0z.) nonfat milk

Coffee or tea, plain

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Lunch

14 cup cottage cheese or 2-egg omelet
Vegetable (1 cup)

1 piece fresh fruit

1 glass (8-o0z.) nonfat milk

Coffee or tea, plain

Dinner

1 cup soup (clear or tomato)
6-ounce serving lean meat

Large combination salad or coleslaw
1 yellow vegetable (24 cup)

Fresh fruit or dried raisins (14 cup)
Coffee or tea, plain

Select from:

Fruits: apples, 4 dried prunes, pears, 3
plums, 34 cup fresh berries, oranges, grape
fruit, fresh pineapple, melon, apricots, ne®&
tarines. |

Vegetables: \ettuce, endive, green or wax
beans, carrots, squash, rutabaga, cauliflower,
broccoli, turnip greens, collards, kale, parsley,
spinach, parsnips, cucumbers, turnips, as-|
paragus, mustard greens, okra, mushrooms,
onions, tomatoes, celery, green peppers.

Meats: lamb, beef, chicken, duck, turkey,
veal, liver, shrimp, lean fish, water-pack tuna
lobsters, scallops.

Rules; Use diet dressings on salads (homes
made or commercially prepared). All meats
must be broiled or roasted, no fried foods al-
lowed. Vegetables can be seasoned with lemo
juice or vinegar, no butter allowed. Between-
meal snacks to consist of: celery, carrots, dill
pickles, small portions of fresh fruit or juice:

W hen my dental work got well under way
I was delighted to find I could actually eat th
kind of ““chewy”’ foods I had avoided beforg
because of the discomfort they had caused
Fresh raw vegetables and fruits, for instance
soon became welcome additions to a meal o
as fill-ins between meals.

As my excess weight gradually disappeared
my appearance improved in a variety of ways:
Without the rich foods, my complexion cleared
up. My hair lost its overoiliness and became
much easier to fix attractively. By walking ¢
lot and doing setting-up exercises regularly
throughout my diet, I never had a problem o
flabby skin. Naturally, with a wide selection o
clothes in small sizes to choose from, I wai
able to find pretty, colorful, becoming styles
Delighted with such changes, I became mor
interested in doing things. I went out for schoo
activities, joined the Art Club and Drami
Club. My marks climbed steadily and I mad)
the honor roll for the first time in my life.

My original weight goal was 130 pounds
because I thought I was “‘large-boned.” Actu
ally, 1 don’t have large bones—it just seeme/
so under all those layers of fat. So I continue
getting down to my 103 pounds, which see
about perfect for my small-boned build.

To maintain my reduced weight I more c
less follow my diet outline, adding a little he
and there. For instance, I might eat large
portions of meat and vegetables or add a
extra glass of nonfat milk to the day’s allo
ment. I no longer like the sweet or fried food
I used to eat, so it is not difficult for me t
avoid them now. To satisfy my sweet tooth;
occasionally have a small slice of angel-foo
cake, or a scoop of ice milk (instead of ic
cream). I continue to exercise because I enj
it—walking, swimming and dancing all col
tribute to keeping my figure slim and firm. ]

Friends and neighbors still can’t belies
that fat old “Jolly Jo’’ White with the crook¢
teeth is actually now a slim girl with a pret
smile. Some don’t even recognize me. Ever}
one is proud of me, even my Aunt Hele
though she still hovers around 300 pound
Yes, I went to the senior prom with a darlit
boy and had a marvelous time, dancing eve
dance in a tiny-waisted size-6 dress!

My dentist was so delighted with me, |
gave me a job as dental assistant in his offi
after I graduated from school. I combined th
work with taking evening college cours
where I met a boy I date steadily now. Just 1
cently I’ve given up my dental-assistant ji
to go to college full time. I want to becor|
a teacher and, believe me, I hope I will ha
as good an influence on other young peopl
lives as I finally had on my own! EN

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BRIDGE

By CHARLES AND PEGGY
SOLOMON

WORLD’S LEADING
HUSBAND-AND-WIFE TEAM

NORTH

&@ 043
9 6432
@ 010
&AKI4
WEST EAST
@ 3105 @ 8762
¥ 0987 ¥ None
@ 65 @AKIJI9832
& 9832 & 105
SOUTH
&@ AKY
WY AKI105
474
Se Q 76

Both vulnerable
South dealer
The bidding:
SOUTH
| Heart

3 Hearts

»
Pass

WEST NORTH
2 Clubs

1 Hearts

EAST
Pass 2 Diamonds
Pass Pass

Pass
West opens the @ 6

Optical illusions and mirages aren’t
restricted to the desert. We ran across
one at the bridge table recently in
which East berated his partner for
blowing a trump trick that would
have set our four-heart contract.
While our opponents were arguing
this issue, we were forced to take sides
with West to show he would win only
one trump trick no matter how he
defended against the game contract.

Now the question before the house
is: Can West make two trump tricks?
But there’s another question, and it
involves good partnership even more
than good bridge. It’s the question
of respect for each other and of
thinking twice before jumping to
conclusions and subjecting partner
to abuse and embarrassment. There
are a great many reasons why part-
ners should refrain from criticizing
each other. One of the best is that
the criticism may be wrong. It was
in this instance.

The bidding followed normal lines.
In fact, had East not overcalled with
his fine diamond suit, North and
South might even have explored slam
possibilities. Doubleton diamonds in
both hands proved the only deter-
rent.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Peggy was sitting South and she
got the expected diamond lead. East
cashed his two high diamonds and
continued the suit. Peggy, sensing
the impending overruff, trumped with
her jack. West overruffed with his
queen.

““No matter what card you return,
I am claiming the balance of the
tricks,” Peggy said. ‘‘I’ll win your
return, pull your trumps with my
ace, king and ten and the rest of my
hand is solid with good spades and
clubs.”” Peggy spread her hand on the
table and the opponents conceded
her claim.

But East wasn’t conceding one
thing. He let loose a torrid blast at
his partner and accused him of throw-
ing the hand.

““What is it?”’ he fumed. “‘ Are you
afraid of ’em, or something, you dope?
They have the same cards as anyone
else in this tournament, and so do
you. Use ’em for a change.”

‘““What are you talking about?”
West asked.

““You wasted the trump queen by
overruffing,’’ expounded East, the
omniscient analyst. “Just discard on
my diamond lead after she trumps.
Then you will win two trump tricks
with your queen-nine-eight-seven and
she’ll be set.”

““Guess you’re right,’’ West mum-
bled. ‘‘Sorry.”’

“‘Wait a moment,” interrupted
Peggy. ‘‘I hate to interfere, but I’ll
make the contract whether he over-
ruffs or not. He can make only one
trump trick no matter how he de-
fends the hand.”’

“‘T gotta be shown,” East insisted,
holding his ground.

“All right,” Peggy said. ‘‘Now
what card would you want your part-
ner to discard instead of overruffing ?”’

‘‘Well, a spade,”’ East suggested.

“OK. I'll now lay down the heart
king and see the four-none trump
break. I’ll cash my four high clubs,
discarding a spade from my hand.
Then I’ll win my ace and king of
spades. Now I’ll lead a small trump
and West will be in. He’ll have the
queen and nine of trumps only. I'll
have the ace and ten. He will be on
lead, so I’ll make them both, and,
incidentally, my contract.”

East paused to think it over.

“‘By the way,” Peggy added, ‘‘if
he tosses off a club instead of a spade,
I’ll still make the same number of
tricks. Then I'll merely cash three

clubs and three spades before throw- ,

ing him into the lead.”
““You win,”

he said, glaring at West, ‘‘you still
shouldn’t have overruffed!”’

The Solomon System of point count
for honor cards is: ace, 4; king, 3;
queen, 2; jack, 1; two tens, 1. A single-
ton king, 2; a singleton queen, 1. (Do
not count tens in an original no-trump
or for evaluating a slam.) Generally,
a holding of 13 points is required for
an opening bid.

said East, throwing |
_ up his hands in despair. ‘*‘But you,”

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The American Institute of Family Relations, now tn tts thirty-third year, has helped nearly
30,000 couples to improve their marriages, by counseling them personally in tts headquarters at

5287 Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles 27, California. It has also furnished appropriate help to countless

thousands of others who have written for educational material or for referral to competent and
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illustrates one common type of marital problem; the counselor was E. Groobin.

PAUL POPENOE, Sc.D., The American Institute of Family Relations

CAN THIS MARRIAGE BE SAV ie

DON ORNITZ

““He wouldn't admit to a date with Irene, just
slammed the door in my face and drove away.”

She says: “He had promised to give her up.’
He says: “J refuse to be brainwashed, in a sense
blackmailed, into never speaking to her again.
We were just going to have one for the road.”

Ann tells her side: ‘I could forgive Gil if he
would tell me the truth,” said twenty-nine-year-
old Ann, twelve years married, the attractive
mother of an adopted two-year-old girl. She
sounded young, bewildered. “I don’t know how
I can keep on loving Gil—despite his faults
I do love him—when I can’t believe a word
he says. All our friends know Gil and Irene
were seriously involved six months ago.

“My next-door neighbor saw them lunching
together half a dozen times. One evening in early
December my best friend saw them at the thea-
ter. Shortly afterward, they were seen at a hotel
in Las Vegas. Until the Las Vegas incident, Gil
had denied everything.

“When he was confronted with indisputable
evidence, he confessed to as little as possible. He
and I then had a showdown. It nearly broke my
heart, but I offered him a divorce if he wanted
to marry Irene. He seemed stunned by the mere
idea. He promised to end their relationship at
once. I tried to believe him.

“Two weeks ago Gil got home at midnight
with the explanation that he had been dining at
a fancy club with an out-of-town customer. Gil
owns a large store, does quite a bit of business
entertaining, and his story seemed logical.

“Next morning, however, the out-of-town
customer called him at the house. From the
tenor of the conversation I felt sure the two men
hadn’t dined together the night before. Gil did
his best to turn the matter into a joke. Accord-
ing to him, I was small-minded, was making sus-
picious wifely noises, and so on. He said he loved
me and our little adopted daughter more than
anything on earth, thought of us constantly, and
could prove it. He rummaged in his topcoat
pocket and pulled out small gifts he said he had
bought us from the night-club hostess.

‘Elaine received a fluffy rabbit. My gift was a
set of costume jewelry; he snapped on the brace-
let and necklace and pretended to compare the
green color of the stones with the color of my

eyes. He was absolutely charming. Still and all
I stuck to the point and questioned him abou
Irene. He frowned, but declared he hadn’t lai
eyes on Irene since his promise last December
He kissed Elaine and went off to the store with
out kissing me.

“At eleven-thirty I called the store to ask hin
where he was lunching. He was already gone
None of his employees knew where he had gone
or if they knew, they wouldn’t admit it. I callec
repeatedly through the afternoon, and did no
reach Gil, although I did talk to his father, whv
was there looking for him.

“Gil’s parents financed the purchase of hi
store by cashing in their insurance, and natu
rally are concerned about his progress. Gil nov
earns nine thousand dollars a year, but he ca
hardly continue to prosper as an absentee owner
At five o’clock I still hadn’t located him, ane
was in a frenzy of nerves. Torn between fear of |
traffic accident and fear he might be somewher'
with Irene, I got into my car and started out t
make further inquiries at the store. For som|
reason I decided to drive past the Italian restau
rant that used to be a big favorite of ours
Twelve years ago, as newlyweds, Gil and I cele
brated every payday there with spaghetti and |
pint of Chianti. |

‘Just as I drove up beside the restaurant ‘|
saw Irene walk in the door, and Gil’s car turn t:
go into the parking lot. For a moment I wa
wild with hurt and anger that he should mee
Irene, or any other woman, at a place that hai
always seemed to belong to him and me. For’ |
moment I scarcely knew what I was doing.
pulled out of traffic, got in the line right behing
Gil’s car, jumped to the pavement. Before h
even saw me I had the door of his car open ani
was hanging onto his shoulder. He went chalk:
white. Guilt was written on his face as plain a
day. But he ignored my babble of questions}
somehow jerked himself free, drove straight o:
through the parking CONTINUED ON PAGE 4

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A Maytag for their classmate

It looked as though Sister Philomena in Cochabamba,
Bolivia, had thrown a curveball to her former high
school classmates and friends in Mission Circle No. 32,
Elyria, Ohio.

When they wrote Sister asking what she needed, her
answering letter suggested a washing machine.

Here was the catch: The mission clearing near Co-
South American jungle.

rtain. No hot water. And

chabamba is surrounded b
Electricity

the nearest repairman in La Paz, a hundred miles of

supply very unce

mountains away

The eight Elyria ladies asked themselves, “If I were
ina jungle and had to pick out a washing machine,
which make would it be?” It happened that all eight
had had personal experience with Maytags and they

liked what they had discovered first-hand about Mav tag

THE MAYTAG COMPANY, NEWTON, IOWA. SOLD IN CANADA AND THROUGHOUT THE WORLD.

dependability. So they turned the problem over to The
Maytag Company.

Sister Philomena now has a Maytag, wringer-type,
powered with a gasoline engine. Mission Circle No. 32
is happy they chose a Maytag, for, as they told us, if
repairs were ever needed, Sister Philomena in Cocha-
bamba must make them herself.

If you don’t live in a jungle, you can enjoy a
Maytag Automatic with the same reputation for
dependability as Sister Philomena’s and with all
these advanced features: An Automatic Bleach
Dispenser ends bleaching mistakes, a Lint-Filter
Agitator eliminates lint problems, an Automatic
Water Level Control saves money, a Safety Lid
stops action in seconds when opened, and a Zinc-

coated Steel Cabinet protects against rust!

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

the jungle

MAY TAG

}ARCH, 1962

1 INTINUED FROM PAGE 38

|t to the alley and was gone. I stood there,
lized. One of the lot attendants parked my
ir, handed me the keys. I went on into the
istaurant. Irene was in a booth by herself,
e prettiest girl in sight, but as usual looking
st and lonesome. | used to be fond of Irene
id to feel sorry for her. Irene’s husband,
2rnard, is a loudmouthed, obnoxious chaser
ho has made her existence a misery. Our
oup tolerates Bernard partly because he
ippens to be a good customer of Gil’s store
it mainly because people like Irene.

“T sat down with her. Irene smiled and pre-
nded it was a nice surprise to see me, that
erything between us was roses. I brushed
pat aside. I told her if she and my husband
inted each other I would file for a divorce,
it that Gil couldn’t have her and me too.
ie still pretended I was making a mistake.
ie line she gave me was that she had done
me extra typing for Gil and he had casually
}ggested they stop and have one for the road.
hen I asked what typing she had done—Gil
s his own secretary—she couldn’t answer.
it when I went on and asked what /er hus-
nd would think of the situation, Irene did
mething that left me confounded.

“She stepped to the public phone, called
rnard at his office down the block and in-
ed him to join us. Ten minutes later Ber-
rd came in, accompanied by the blond girl
10 works for him, and all smiles. By then I
d steeled myself to drag the whole sorry
‘ss out into the open and get something ser-

vere are aS many nights as days, and
e one is just as long as the other in the
ar’s course. Even a happy life cannot

without a measure of darkness, and
2 word “‘happy’’ would lose its meaning
t were not balanced by sadness. It is far
tter to take things as they come along
h patience and equanimity.

DR. CARL JUNG

|
. | was determined not to be put off and
led a minute longer. When I spoke my
-e Bernard was insufferable. He conde-
nded to me; in his patronizing words I was
ealous little thing’ and should follow the
imple of his wise sweet wife, Irene: stop
ing foolish questions and accept life as it
b. He snapped his fingers at the waiter and
bposed to order drinks all around as a sign
riendship and forgiveness.
it was like a scene in a play, a nightmare
y. | walked out on them. Nothing seemed
1. All the way home I had the feeling the
ble world was crazy or that I was crazy,
nobody believed in whrat*I believed in,
t taeverybcdy else infidelity was meaning-
, truth was worthless. When I arrived home
's car was in the garage. Worse still, his
ents’ car was in the driveway.
My mother-in-law and _ father-in-law,
ser to me than my own parents, took my
in the trouble last December. Strict, high-
ded people, they were shocked and bewil-
led by Gil’s behavior.
/Gil was with them in the living room. They
Ne cross-examining him about where he’d
all afternoon. All he said was that he
) run away from the restaurant to spare
rybody embarrassment. That is difficult
me to believe.
it is impossible for me to believe his pro-
tions that Irene means nothing to him.
do his parents believe him. They stayed
land on that dreadful evening. Finally Gil
hed out of the house and drove off, but his
@s stayed another hour to comfort me. It
dawn before Gil came back.
!Ever since, for two weeks now, he has in-
‘ ed he is a much misunderstood man; the
red, innocent party. In a discussion just
Saturday he fetched up with a brand-new
t. Unless I have faith in him, he says I will
i®roy his self-confidence and ability to earn
l ing for Elaine and me. To prove my faith,
fvants us to apply immediately to adopt an-
r baby. Did you ever hear of anything
Ne fantastic? No reputable agency would

give a child to people in our position, people
on the verge of divorce. He argues we should
stop quarreling about a figment of my imag-
ination—his relationship with Irene.

“Gil and I have been married twelve years,
happy years until last fall, but I don’t under-
stand him any more. I feel as though he has
become a stranger to me, although we have
been acquainted with each other ever since I
can remember. We went to Sunday school to-
gether, we lived next door as children. I spent
almost as much time in his house as in ours.
His mother taught me to cook.

“My parents were busy raising six young-
sters. His parents, with Gil their only chick,
made a pet of me. Both sets of parents were
pleased by our marriage despite our youth. |
was seventeen, Gil barely two years older. At
that time his folks were unable to assist us
financially and at first we had a tough row to
hoe. But I was glad to take a job as a stenog-
rapher; Gil, then a salesman in the store he
now owns, picked me up every afternoon at my
office. Our chief disappointment was no chil-
dren; in our first year I had two ectopic preg-
nancies in quick succession, and that was that.
Gil was wonderfully sympathetic during both
my stays in the hospital, hid his own grief, and
promised we could adopt a child when the
proper time came.

“

is the meanwhile we enjoyed our freedom
from responsibility. With two paychecks, we
could afford almost any kind of recreation we
chose. We danced, we played golf and tennis.
We learned to ski. In those days Gil and I were
as close as the fingers on your hand. We
shared everything, literally everything. I have
always considered it a sin for a married couple
to hold back the smallest secret. Once I re-
member I even told Gil all about a silly sort of
crush I got on a ski instructor we had one win-
ter. In the spring the instructor moved to Col-
orado and never knew how I'd admired his
good looks and sportsmanship. Nobody knew
of my silliness except Gil and myself. I didn’t
dare to tell his mother, of course.

“She and Gil’s father thought the majority
of our friends were too old for us, and a bad
influence. It was fun for Gil and me to be the
youngest in the crowd. Eventually the fun
palled. Most of those early friends were di-
vorced, as Gil’s mother had predicted, or else
they had children and drifted away. Just
about that time I began to ache, really ache for
a child. Gil felt the same. So I quit my job and
we applied to the adoption agency fora baby,
even though we wondered how on earth we
could manage on one income.

*‘A pleasant miracle solved the problem. My
father-in-law’s insurance policies matured. He
advanced the money and Gil bought the
store where he had worked so long as a lowly
salesman. Six months later we were notified
by the adoption agency that Elaine was ready
for us. The day Gil and I took our baby
home—Elaine was two months old—was the
happiest day in my life and he said it was his
happiest day.

‘*“Forewarned by all the child-rearing books,
I was careful not to neglect Gil in the joy of
tending our daughter. I am sure he felt no
jealousy of Elaine; from the first he spoiled her
terribly and she could do no wrong in his
eyes. Shortly after Elaine learned to walk, I
did begin to notice that his hours on the job
seemed to stretch longer and longer. How-
ever, he was new at being a boss, eager to mas-
ter the tricks of the trade, and awfully proud
of his increased earnings. I was thrilled by his
pride in himself, his hard work.

“T suppose I was foolish not to guess right
off he had got interested in another woman.
But to me, busy with the baby, our marriage
was at last complete and ideally happy. Also,
I had the longtime habit of trust. My first hint
came one day on the golf course. I watched
Gil show Irene the prep:r way to hold her
clubs. He kept his arm around her shoulder a
little longer than necessary. It seemed incred-
ible that he would involve himself with the
wife of a good customer, somebody who
could damage him in business. But that evening
I hinted it might be well to avoid even the ap-
pearance of evil. He laughed at me and I was
satisfied of his innocence—or almost satisfied.

“That same week I heard from my neighbor
that he and Irene had been seen repeatedly at

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a restaurant patronized by everybody in our
group. Soon reports came flooding in to me
from everywhere. Gil and I staged our Decem-
ber showdown as soon as he returned from
that gay Las Vegas weekend, which Id trust-
ingly believed he was to spend at a business
convention. Earlier in the week our daughter
had celebrated her second birthday, and he’d
buried the child in expensive presents.

“Gil seemed scared to death when I threat-
ened to take Elaine and leave him, break up
our home. But he balked at discussing Irene
with me, and limited his admissions to things I
could definitely prove. When he promised he
would never see Irene again, he sounded sin-
cere. He probably broke his word and tele-
phoned her that very evening. I don’t know.

“T have no idea how much Irene means to
Gil or what she does mean, or why he would
risk his parents’ savings and his own business
in order to run around with her. I doubt he
loves Irene. I have no idea where I stand in his
affections. I’m not impressed by his avowals
that he loves me. I do think Gil loves our lit-
tle girl. And in a queer sort of way, I think he
really wants to preserve our marriage.

“Tm afraid a divorce is inevitable. I cannot
share him with Irene. Nor can I convince my-
self there is much value in a marriage without
mutual honesty, without trust.”

GIL TELLS HIS SIDE:

“I was brought up on the principle that
honesty is the best policy,” said thirty-one-
year-old Gil. Slender in build, of medium
height, he had a youthful unlined face. “But
I can hardly tell the truth to Ann—the whole
truth, as she puts it—when I’m so mixed up
and confused myself.

“To the extent that I feel justified I have
tried to play straight with Ann, and tell her
what she is entitled to hear. I’ve told her the
present score. Again and again I’ve assured her
that I no longer have any important interest in
Irene—this is quite true—but she doesn’t be-
lieve me. I now look on Irene as just a friend.

“Some months ago (since you’re my coun-
selor, I'll admit this) I guess I was more inter-
ested in Irene than a happily married man
should be in another woman. For the sake of
my little girl and my wife and family peace, I
pulled myself up short and brought my emo-
tions under control. Irene understood.
Frankly, I think she and I were both secretly
relieved to get back on a strictly friendly
basis. I'm sure Irene now thinks of me only
as a casual companion, somebody to talk to
once in a while. She and I were never actually
in love with each other, regardless of what
Ann and my parents may suppose. Like a lot
of other people, I felt sorry for Irene because
of the husband she was dealt. My store han-
dles heavy sporting goods and playground
equipment, and Bernard is a city official who
lets contracts for the parks and recreation sys-
tem. Landing a fair share of those contracts is
a big consideration in a business the size of
mine, and Bernard has certainly rubbed it in.
For years I’ve had to listen to his name drop-
ping, accept his condescension, laugh at his
bum jokes, pick up his bar checks.

“Bernard earns a fat salary, but he spends
it on himself, and Irene has to work. Knowing
what she had to put up with at home, I lis-
tened sympathetically to her talk about her
troubles. She sympathized with my problems
too—and I have problems. I love my wife and
child; I love and respect my mother and father.
But in combination Ann and my parents often
make me feel as though I were locked up in
jail—exactly the way I used to feel as a boy.

“If I was thirty minutes late coming home
from school mother would send dad to hunt
for me. When I achieved the teens and my own
car, she developed a trick heart. One time the
police flagged me down on the road and sent
me home on the double because presumably
she’d had a bad attack. There was nothing
wrong. But it was past midnight and mother
was worried about my safety.

“Just about that time I started climbing out
my bedroom window to meet the only girl I
ever dated except Ann. Florence was two
years my senior; mother heartily disapproved
of Florence, and for once her intuitions were
sound. Not long after Florence promised to
marry me I found out she was going in for
heavy petting with two other guys, and it

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

darned near broke my heart. But then I dis.
covered Ann and made a fast recovery.

“It’s a marvel I ever fell for Ann. She hac
been pushed at me by my folks since I was ter
years old and she was eight. But after my ex!
perience with Florence, I was charmed by
Ann’s honesty and sweetness. I liked the fac|
that she was younger, and looked up to mi
as though I were some kind of tin god. I ever
liked the fact that she and my parents and he}
parents were all congenial.

“T didn’t realize our marriage would tun
out to be such a family affair. From the bepial
ning Ann and my mother were thick a
thieves. My parents have usually decide¢
which of our friends are suitable, and th:
friends to whom they’re cool are likely_t
wind up on the discard pile. When we adop
Elaine I wanted to adopt a boy at the saén)
time—I know the lonesomeness of being a)
only child—but my folks soon persuaded An.
that one baby was plenty. Ann and I hay
celebrated twelve years of holidays, includin
our own wedding anniversaries, with my pal
ents, her parents, and any of her marrie.
brothers and sisters who care to show up.

“Ann looks back on the early years of ou
marriage with considerable fondness. I don)
I wasn’t earning enough to support her, fc
one thing. This fact was known to everybod
in both families and I got advice from every
body, particularly my father. Ann always a¢
vised me to listen to father’s advice. Both f
and she frequently suggested that if I woul
just work harder my income difficulties woul
vanish. Long ago Ann and mother joing

j
i
|

If you feel that your marriage may goo
the rocks, why not list the things you
partner has that are pleasing to you, an
opposite set down those traits of your ow
that might make you a bit difficult 4
live with? It may change your entire e
istence. DALE CARNEG

forces and have worried as a team over n
welfare, my whereabouts, my bad habits. Bat
in those early years I went all out to win Anr
respect as a good husband and a good gu
but I flopped. She was far more impressed |
the handsome teeth and Paul Newman prof
of a stupid ski instructor than she was by &
She told me so herself. In plain words.

“To this day father is convinced that t
capital he invested in my store is solely 1
sponsible for my prosperity. He shows up)
the store every day with a fresh batch of 4
vice, and Ann thinks it’s great. Every day s
sees my mother or they get on the phone a
consult about my comings and goings.

“Irene has always treated me as though
were fully grown, a successful businessny
because of my own ability. Maybe Irene’
wrong, but her sentiments were sure a mor
booster. However, I can get along with¢
Irene’s compliments or her company.

Bec in December when Ann discovere
was overly interested in Irene and read met
riot act, a great light dawned, and suddenh
woke up to the stupidity of my pity for Ire’
If Irene wanted to leave Bernard, there v
nothing to prevent it. More important, I re
ized that Ann and my little girl came first W
me. If I lost them, I lost my reason for wo
ing, my pleasure in living; I lost everything
told Ann so. When I offered to end my ass¢
ation with Irene, I meant it. §

“The thing is Ann and I interpreted my
fer in different terms. Somehow I didn’t ¢
ton to the notion that I could be brainwash
ina sense blackmailed, into promising I wo
never speak to Irene again. When I madi
plain to her that she and I were washed up
any romantic basis, I thought I’d done enou
Whenever I passed Irene on the street I ¢
tinued to speak to her. Why not? Occasi
ally I bought her a drink. Nothing of any ¢
sequence. Nothing that could hurt Ann.

“But I was careless. Two weeks ago #
saw me as I was about to meet Irene ina p
lic restaurant to spend thirty minutes, if tl

CONTINUED ON PAGE)

tk ee Ses ee ee

| MARCH, 1962

Model RCI-75-62

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By JOHN BRENNEMAN, arcuitecTuRAL EDITOR

This manufactured house would fit on a sixty-foot lot in
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We approach the front door through a sheltered garden
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In addition to the large living room, there are a separate
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complete laundry room, the option of three or four bed-
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This house, built on a hillside, has a basement with
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A brick fireplace screens and separates the high-ceilinged
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This house is available in all states except New Mexico,
Arizona, Montana and the Pacific Northwest.

Main floor area: 1500 square feet

Architect: John Brenneman

Cost: $23,000 to $27,000 plus land, depending
upon size, location, options desired.

tr 1

JOHN BRENNEMAN

Playroom terrace is ideal for a summer birthday party.

HOUSE
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ee | ie? aes Reinforced fiber-glass-and-nylon plastic panels light the |
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For more information write to: Mr. Donald Scholz
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By CLIFFORD R. ADAMS, Ph.D., Pennsylvania State University, Department of Psychology

MAKING MARRIAGE WORK

“T don’t know what’s
wrong in our home,
but I don’t think any
of us is very happy. We
seem to be in a rut.
Our children of seven,
ten and twelve years squabble
among themselves, and our eve-
ning

MAKING
FAMILY
LIFE
SATISFYING =:

days is noisy and disagreeable. About all we do is sit
and watch the idiot box (my husband’s name for
television). The children sit up too late and they fight
about which programs to watch. By the time they
finally get to bed, John and-I are both exhausted.

“He works hard at his job and I have my hands
full with the work for a family of five. We don’t get
enough rest or any time together. The house looks a
wreck all the time, and I have given up trying to keep
it clean. I am sure John is discouraged, and I sure am.
We keep telling ourselves that everything will be dif-
ferent when the children are older, but I’ve been
saying that for five years and things are getting worse
instead of better.

“There never is much extra money, and we wouldn’t
have this if John didn’t work Saturdays at a second
job. I suppose he and I get along about as well as the
average couple married for fifteen years, but I keep
thinking of our first two years of marriage, when |
was working. We were so happy then compared with
now. We wanted our children and we do love them,
but I sometimes feel like going off by myself and never
coming back. I would never do it, but it frightens me
even to have such thoughts. I want our home and
family life to be more satisfying, but I don’t know
how to make it so.”

This mother’s problem is quite common. Swamped
by daily routine and the repetitive demands on her,
she feels hopelessly bogged down. Though it is difficult
to make specific suggestions without more detailed
information about her particular circumstances, per-
haps these ideas will be useful:

Discipline seems inadequate. The particular form of
child rearing is a matter for the parents to evolve, but
it always requires direction and control. Whatever the
training, it should not be based on force, fear or with-
drawal of love. No child can be emotionally secure
without an abundance of affection, but he actually
feels safer if he knows he must respect some rules and
authority. Nor can he develop respect for others and

accept appropriate responsibilities without firm and
consistent discipline. Even a six-year-old can and must
learn to respect the rights and wishes of others if he
expects his own to be observed.

This wife’s children can be of real help (though at
first the instruction required of her will take more
time than the tasks). Suitable chores should be as-
signed to them, and they should be praised for ade-
quate performance.

Play space must be provided. The living room should
be an orderly family center, not a gymnasium. Per-
haps the attic or basement can be converted to the
children’s use. We know one mother whose children
take weekly turns using one of their two bedrooms for
active play, and they respect her rule that the week’s
playroom must be put in order before they can come
to supper.

Games should be supplied. Games and toys for any
age level and ability can usually be found at the five-
and-ten. Games can be interesting and at the same
time stimulate learning and skill. But parents should
participate, at least by helping the children under-
stand the instructions and rules. If space and money
permit, indoor games such as table pool and tennis,
outdoor games like croquet and badminton, can pro-
vide fun for adults as well as children.

Television should be restricted. Television attracts
children because they like action and noise, and it
frees the mother from giving them attention. But this
does not free her from seeing that they have a well-
rounded program including active play, household
chores, reading and study and developing independent
interests and activities. Though some programs are
excellent, no normal person, child or adult, should
spend half his free time in passive captivity. If your
child is already afflicted with “‘televisionitis,’’ the only
way to restore him to normal family activity may be
to disable the set for a couple of weeks. When opera-
tion is resumed, tell your children when and what they
may watch. Without some limits, you may be actually
disabling your children.

Family projects are important. Sharing activities in-
creases cooperation and solidarity. Devise undertak-
ings in which everybody can take interest and pride;
potted plants, a bird feeder, a garden in which each
family member has a plot are possibilities. So are a
Sunday drive, a Saturday movie, picnics or an occa-
sional restaurant meal. Pets are desirable.

Reading aloud is valuable. When children are old
enough, let them read their favorites to the whole
family. ““Dressing up’’ and acting out skits keeps the

children busy and can amuse the adults—while they
knit or sew or sneak a glance at the evening paper.

Communication is vital. It’s almost impossible for a
child to talk to parents who don’t talk to each other.
When parents don’t share, they are not likely to share
with their children or to build a confidential relation-
ship with them.

Although this wife doesn’t specifically mention poor
communication with her husband, she does complain
that they have almost no time alone together. Since
she feels too busy to spend time with her children for
pleasure, it’s clear that there is little family sharing.
It’s apparent, too, that she and her husband don’t
give each other adequate emotional support.

Housework should be organized. With a little better
planning, many wives and mothers could operate their
households more efficiently and more enjoyably. Dur-
ing her children’s school hours, this mother might
attend to duties requiring care, concentration and
freedom from interruption. She might even sandwich
a coffee break and short nap into these hours; she
could lessen her fatigue and be able to work more
effectively. When the children returned from school,
she could attend to those chores 1n which they can be
of greatest help. Aside from their assistance, the asso-
ciation would offer opportunities to talk to them, to
learn about their friends and school activities, and
listen to their wants and complaints. And as the
children grow older, not only would her labor be
lessened but also her relationship to her children would
be more positive and understanding.

The home should be livable. Though perfectionism,
whether in homemaking, a husband’s job or children’s
behavior, is undesirable and unrealistic, everybody
enjoys a home that is comfortable, livable and pleas-
ant. When children are small, formality should be
avoided. Furniture should be functional, and arranged
for convenience rather than for appearance. Expensive
furnishings or those easily marred should be avoided
or protected. It is shortsighted to surround young
children with bric-a-brac or other tempting objects
that can be easily broken. The criterion every wife and
mother should follow in home furnishing is not what
the neighbors will admire, but what her husband and
children will enjoy.

None of these suggestions, if adopted, will guarantee
a happy marriage and home life, but each can con-
tribute something worth while to harmonious and
comfortable relationships among the members of the
family. Why not read these suggestions again, and ask
yourself if any of them applies to your family?

THIS PROBLEM OF PETTING

“My parents brought me up strictly and I have tried
to practice high moral standards. In fact, I have
always been regarded as too nice by boys I dated. (I
was not permitted to date in high school, and in col-
lege was rarely asked for second dates.)

“Shortly after I came here to teach, I began dating
a young man just for fun, but our basic values were so
different that I never thought we would become
serious. But after a month we decided to go steady. It
was then that his ‘roaming hands’ became a problem.
I explained, argued, pushed away, begged him to
behave. But one day I gave in, and we petted much
further than people should before marriage, though I
don’t mean I slept with him. I don’t know what
possessed me, and it hasn’t happened again, but I am
still angry and disgusted with myself.

‘Bill knows I would stop dating him if he even
tried to touch me like that any more. Considering
myself in love wouldn’t excuse what I did or make it
less wrong. I believe God has forgiven me, but I can’t
forgive myself. Now I don’t know whether I should
marry Bill because of what I’ve done, or whether I
still have a chance to go with a fine person; and if I
do, should [ tell him what I have done? If you haven’t
time to write, please answer on your page, for I am
pretty confused.”

Sara’s confusion stems from the conflict within her-
self. As happens to most people who violate their own

strong moral convictions, she is suffering from feelings
of guilt and shame.

Of all human sexual behavior, premarital petting
has shown the greatest increase during the past quarter
century. According to Kinsey and his associates, some
80 to 90 percent of all girls have petted by age twenty
years. (By “petting’’ we refer to caresses below the
neck.) Many dating couples consider petting a socially
acceptable substitute for intercourse (which of course
our society strongly disapproves).

Some students and writers of textbooks on courtship
and marriage feel that expression of physical feeling
through necking and petting is a desirable part of
emotional and psychosexual development, and may
be a natural way of preparing for marriage and its
most intimate relationships. But counselors and other
authorities, including Kinsey, agree that when petting
is followed by strong guilt reactions, personality prob-
lems and emotional maladjustments often result. In
various studies of petting, about a third of girls re-
port feelings of uneasiness and conflict about their
behavior.

According to our own studies, about one girl in ten
feels as guilty and unworthy over her petting as Sara
does. The reasons for such extreme guilt feelings
include:

Conflict between attitudes (moral beliefs and religious
convictions) and actual behavior.

Postponing dating until the late teens or early twenties.
When a girl begins dating at fourteen or fifteen (an

age when her physical—sexual—feelings are just be-
ginning to develop), she has time and opportunity to
learn how to manage her emotions as they gradually
intensify. Without this developmental training, a girl
may not acquire the skill and finesse to control a

. . j
determined male or her own desires (as was the case

with Sara).

Violation of her parents’ standards and teachings.

“Going steady” too soon, as Sara did.

Conscience pangs and conflict are accentuated when |
the man is one whom the girl would not normally "1
choose as a mate. Though Sara now knows that she’)
made a mistake, she continues to date Bill and is even}
considering marrying him to ease her conscience. This |
would be a very serious mistake, since she neither loves |
Bill nor considers him a suitable mate. But it is not
fair to him to continue “going steady” without making
it clear to him that she does not love him.

Four safeguards will protect a girl from indulging in
sex behavior that is likely to make her feel guilty or
ashamed:

Beginning dating a little at a sensibly early age.

Dating many boys in order to gain an understand-
ing of masculine psychology and to learn how to avoid
complicating entanglements.

Not going steady at too young an age nor dating
steadily or exclusively unless with someone potentially
acceptable in marriage.

Avoiding the first step in a sequence that is in con-
flict with one’s philosophy and code of ideals and values.

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Jane Goodsell talks about the shortcomings—and goings- of hostesses, plumbers, committees, husbands, and you and me.

KALISH

“Tf we can park within half a block, I know we've arrived too early for the party.”

We've adopted a new time system, and I wish
somebody would sit down and explain it to me.
I’m not talking about Daylight Saving Time. |
can understand that, sort of. What I can’t grasp is
Modern Indefinite Time, guessing when to keep
an appointment. For instance:

What time should I get to a 10-0'clock meeting?

I hate to admit I used to be so naive I'd arrive
at 10 sharp. I was in such a hurry to get there on
time that I’d forget my gloves and speed across
town, skimming through yellow lights and hoping
my watch was fast. On arrival, I’d dash into the
meeting hall to find nobody but the building cus-
todian (who'd be setting up the folding chairs) and
the chairman of the refreshment committee, who'd
ask me to be a dear and arrange the cookies for her.

Little by little, I broke the punctuality habit. 1
began by arriving five minutes late. Gradually I
built up to forty. Give or take a few minutes,
twenty to eleven seemed a sensible time to arrive
for a 10-o’clock meeting.

But Modern Indefinite Time is shifty by its very
nature. Last week I arrived at a meeting barely
thirty-five minutes late. And—would you believe
it?—they’d already whipped through the Minutes
of the Last Meeting, dispensed with Old and New
usiness, and elected me chairman of the Ways
nd Means Committee!

What time should I expect the plumber who prom-
ised lo show up first thing in the morning ?

Of course I don’t actually expect him to appear
at 8 o’clock sharp. On the other hand, can I trust
him mot to? If I assume that he won’t show up be-
fore 10, he’ll bang on the door at 8:02 and have the
pipes turned off before I’ve had time to draw
water for coffee. But if I take him at his word (and
get up half an hour early and rush everyone
through breakfast and stay home the rest of the
day waiting for him) he won’t show up until three
days later. At 2 in the afternoon just as I’m
lathering my hair with a copper-glow rinse that’s
supposed to be washed out in twenty minutes.

Incidentally, how long is a jiffy? It’s one hour
and twenty-five minutes, according to the last
plumber
in a jiffy

who told me he’d turn the water back on

What lime should I arr lve for
date with a friend?

a 1-o’clock lunch

It depends on (a) how late I think she'll be,
which depends on (b) how late she thinks I’ll be.

BY JANE GOODSELI

This type of reasoning is enough to give Aris-
totle a headache. You can imagine its effect on me.

The point is, I want to arrive later than my
friend, so that I can rush in, full of breathless ex-
planations about my frantically busy morning.
But she, too, has a reputation to maintain as an
energetic modern American woman whose life
buzzes with activities. So how late is late enough?

If | arrive at 1:20 and she doesn’t get there until
1:40, I will, of course, insist that I just arrived a
second ago myself.

Next time I’]l be the last to arrive, even if I have
to spend a whole hour combing my hair in the
powder room.

What time should I keep a 10:30 appointment
with the doctor?

I know the answer to this: Eleven o’clock at the
earliest. Nevertheless, I still get there at 10:30
sharp because I know what would happen if I
didn’t: it would turn out to be the one day, unique
in a lifetime of medical practice, when the doctor
was keeping his appointments on the dot.

I’d hate to keep the doctor waiting. Like all Dr.
Kildare fans, I realize that the doctor’s time is
more valuable than mine. I know this, but I don’t
believe it—not after a twenty-five-minute wait in
the waiting room, during which not a single pa-
tient is ushered in. What is that doctor doing in
there, anyway? Working a crossword puzzle?
Playing solitaire? Talking to his broker? And here
I sit, when I could be home cleaning out my
bureau drawers.

I don’t know any solution to this dilemma,
short of shooting my way in past the nurse.

If I've arranged to pick up my husband in front of
his office building at 5:30, what time should I get
there?

In this situation, I have two clear-cut choices:
(1) I can get there at 5:30, and drive round and
round the block in rush-hour traffic, getting mad-
der by the minute, until my husband shows up; or
(2) I can get there at 5:45, leaving him standing
on a street corner, getting madder by the minute,
until I show up.

In either case, one of us is going to greet the
other by saying, ‘It’s about time!” and conversa-
tion on the drive home will center on such gay
topics as Developing a Sense of Responsibility and
Lack of Consideration for Others.

Theoretically—since he’s late half the time, and
I’m late half the time—we should occasionally ar-
rive simultaneously. And we did, once—in 1959.

What time should we show up for a 7-o'clock
dinner party?

Of all the situations involved in Modern In-
definite Time, this is the most hazardous. It’s the
hardest to guess right, and the worst when you
guess wrong.

The ideal time to ring the doorbell is after the
first arrivals have stopped standing around, dis-
cussing the weather, like people waiting for a
streetcar, but before the ice has begun to run out.

I, myself, find this an unattainable ideal. The
problem is not whether to be late, but how late.
Basically, guessing right is an instinctive thing.
But sometimes, if you listen closely, you can ex-
tract a clue from the phrasing of the invitation.

If your hostess says, ““Come about seven,”’ you
needn’t draw your bath until 7:15. If she says
‘““Sevenish,”’ you can give yourself a manicure, too,
and take plenty of time for the polish to dry. If she
simply says, “Seven o’clock,’”’ maybe you ought to
get there by 7:30.

And then again, maybe not. As an extra pre-
caution, I always take a reading on the parking
situation around the house when we arrive. If we
can park within half a block, I urge my husband to
drive around for a while.

The other night we were making our fourth turn
around the block when my husband remarked that
there seemed to be a lot of traffic for that time of
night in a quiet residential district. In fact, we
seemed to be in some sort of procession. As it
turned out, three other couples were making the
rounds with us. When we pulled up in front of the
house, they followed suit. We all arrived in a
bunch, fifty-five minutes late.

The dinner, like all dinners on Modern Indefi-
nite Time, survived beautifully. It was a carefree
casserole with an exotic foreign name— paella or
cannelloni or something. At least, I suppose it sur-
vived beautifully. I don’t know what it was sup-
posed to taste like.

But the hostess looked a bit drawn, and the host
looked sort of squinty-eyed, and the martini
pitcher was half empty.

What time should we arrive for 6:30 dinner at my
Greal-Aunt Hattie’s?

Aunt Hattie is hopelessly out of step with the
times. When you go to her house for dinner, you
eat rare roast beef and asparagus with hollandaise
sauce and chocolate soufflé. She’s still on Old-
Fashioned Time, and she expects you to show up
somewhere between 6:30 and 6:35.

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DOCTOR SPOCK TALKS WITH MOTHERS

IS HARD

TO TALK TO TEENAGERS

ABOUT

THE FACTS OF Eke

We Americans consider ourselves enlightened in
regard to sex education; and perhaps we are, com-
pared with many other countries and compared with
ourown country in past centuries. But surveys show
that relatively few adolescents here receive much
knowledge at home even today. Most of them say
they learn from friends, books and experience. There
are real reasons why communication is difficult—for
the parent and for the adolescent. In human beings,
unlike other creatures, sexuality always involves to
some degree feelings of modesty, embarrassment,
euilt, evenin parts of the world where customs and
attitudes are very different from ours. This isn’t a
minor difference between human beings and other
species. From what we've learned through psycho-
analysis, we assume that these feelings of constraint
were built into the human race as a basic part of its
nature, through the process of evolution, and that
they are built into each individual, partly through
his inherited instincts, partly through the typical
experiences of growing up in a family. In all other
species the period of dependence in the young is
relatively brief, and leads right up to full sexual
maturity. There is no taboo in adulthood which
tells them that sex is an embarrassing matter or
that sexual relations between certain individuals
is wrong. Ilumans, by comparison, go through an
amazingly
emotional development. There is a whole year of al-
most complete helplessness in infancy. ‘Then there
are two years during which they discover they are
separate beings, though still very dependent, and
assert their puny independence. From three to six
they turn back much more positively toward their
parents. A boy in this stage develops his manly
ideals through his devotion to his father. He de-
velops his basic ideals about women and marriage
by becoming romantically very attached to his
mother. But human romantic love is intense and
possessive. We believe that it stirs up in a little boy
of four and five hidden feelings of rivalry and re-
sentment toward his father, and makes him worry
that his father is similarly rivalrous and angry with
him. The little girl, feeling competitive with her
mother for her father’s attention, imagines that her

“Anyone who thinks it’s easy to talk
to adolescents about love and dates and
sex probably hasn't tried it. It may
help parents to know, and to tell their
children, that shame about sexuality is

a built-in part of human nature, ex-

pertenced by all peoples everywhere.”

prolonged and zigzagging course of

By BENJAMIN SPOCK, M.D.

Usually mothers talk with girls, fathers with
sons—what seems most comfortable is best.

mother is resentful. Parental disapproval of touch-
ing the genitals, which is frequently shown at this
age, reinforces the child’s idea that the parent is
angry about all his sexual and romantic wishes.
These ideas are so worrisome to small children that
they don’t want to think about them, but quickly

repress them into the unconscious levels of their

minds. We believe, from the psychoanalysis of

thousands of adults and children, and from the
dramatic play situations that children create for
themselves and for their dolls, and from the fright-
ening dreams which become more frequent at this
age, that this fear of the parents’ anger about
sexuality is universal in children at four and five
years. As the anxiety builds up, it eventually causes
every normal child to strive to suppress his roman-
tic and sexual feelings altogether at about five, six,
seven years of age, especially in regard to members
of the family. And these feelings stay suppressed
for the next half dozen years. This is the age when
the boy claims girls are repulsive, scorns talk or
movies about love, no longer wants tender treat-
ment from his mother, and turns his interests to-
ward schoolwork and other impersonal matters. A
comparable process takes place in girls, but they
do not usually feel the same degree of fear and do
not suppress their romantic interests so deeply. We
believe that it is a biological necessity that this
suppression take place, in a species which loves so
intensely and in which it is necessary for children
to be dependent on their parents for fifteen to
twenty years, while they learn how to get along in
the world. Otherwise they’d be acting like sexual
delinquents instead of docilely attending school.
And families would be disrupted by jealousies be-
fore the children were ready to be on their own.

It is the glandular changes of early adolescence

which bring to an end this comfortable middle-

FRANCEKEVICH

childhood assumption that the opposite sex can be
ignored. The newly stirred up sexual and romantic
feelings have a tendency to go out toward the par-
ents again—unconsciously, as dreams often show—
but the adolescent fights off any recognition of this,
sometimes by being unbearably disagreeable to the |
parent of the opposite sex. A boy is apt to become
even more intolerant of his mother’s physical af-
fection. A girl may beg her mother not to mention f
to her father that her periods have begun. The old |
rivalry with the parent of the same sex is revived—
with a new intensity because the child really is ap-
proaching maturity and competition with adults.
The boy, however reasonable he may be on the sur-
face, doesn’t really like to be bossed by his father.
He feels that he should have the ear when he needs
it. The girl feels that it’s now her turn to have the
beautiful clothes, use the cosmetics, be the roman-
tic queen. Time for her mother to take a back seat.
When a child was three or four he had an unem-
barrassed, eager curiosity about such questions as
where babies come from, which made it fairly easy
for the parent to explain. Between six and twelve,
when a child’s romantic interests became strongly
repressed, he was able to look at the biological as-
pects of reproduction quite impersonally. like aj
scientist, and this helped the parent to take the
same tone. Then when adolescence forces him to
become acutely conscious of his own sexuality, the
strong taboos of the previous six years make him
feel acutely uncomfortable. They also make him
want to deny that his parents are sexual beings.
(The embarrassed teenage daughter of a pregnant
mother may make indignant remarks such as, “I
thought my mother was way beyond that sort of
thing!”’) So in one sense the parent is the last per-
son a young adolescent wants to reveal his sexual
concerns to, or hear about sex from, particularly in
the case of the boy. Many a parent has found,
when he tries to suggest a discussion, that the child
hastily says, “I know all about it,” and looks
around desperately for a means of escape. This
makes the parent as self-conscious as if he were
telling off-color stories in very proper company.
I'm only warning parents, sympathetically, that
they’ve got to brace themselves, as if they were
giving unpleasant medicine to a small child. It’s
usually considered preferable for mothers to talk
with daughters, and fathers with sons. But when
fathers, many of whom are even shier than mothers
on this topic, can’t bring themselves to talk with
sons, it’s better for the mothers to do it than no

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advocated that mothers talk with sons, fathers
with daughters. Obviously families are dif-
ferent, and what seems most comfortable is
usually the best.

An important point to make before we go
further is that the relatively few sessions in
any family devoted to serious discussion of
love and sex are less important than the way
the parents and children have lived together
all along.

Children get their basic feelings about
just what it means to be a man or a woman—
and the relationships between them—from the
way their parents treat each other. When there
is mutual devotion and tenderness and respect,
the sons and daughters grow up expecting this
sort of relationship for themselves. They'll in-
stinctively shy away from contemporaries who
are looking for something else. But as children
go through the teen years it also helps them to
crystallize their standards further if they can
discuss casually with their parents—at meal-
times, for instance—questions about the every-
day behavior of classmates and themselves.
They really respect their parents’ judgment and
want their guidance, even though they don’t
always show it. But they hate to be scolded or
belittled. So parents have to listen understand-
ingly to what an adolescent is trying to tell
them or ask them. They can show by their
manner that they respect the fact that he is
now having to make his own decisions when
away from home, and that they are advising
him sympathetically so that he will not get
into situations that might make him look fool-
ish or lose him the respect of schoolmates he
admires.

One factor which makes discussion difficult
today between American teenagers and their
parents is that dating practices have been
changing so fast. There has been a progressive
relaxation in sexual behavior since World
War I, which has gone along with other pro-
found social changes. In earlier centuries the
church, the state, respectable society and the
elders in one’s own family spoke in one voice
on questions of morality. It was not that
everybody behaved accordingly, but they
knew what the rules were. In the twentieth
century these authorities have lost part of
their influence for many people. Nowadays
psychologists and sociologists report on what
people are really like. And there is so much
respect for ‘science’? and “normality” that
some people, after reading the reports, are in-
clined to select their own standards from the
statistics. There are many conscientious par-
ents today who, fearing that they may be old-

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

fashioned or too strict, hesitate to give their
children any firm guidance. Even teenagers
themselves complain of this. It’s not that all
parents will have the same standards. But they —
should make clear to their children what they
do believe.

I think myself that the realistic understand- |
ing that we have gained about human nature
need not paralyze us in counseling our chil-
dren. In fact, it provides us with information -
and advice which, because it is realistic as _
well as moralistic, will not lead to disillu- |
sionment.

A basic question that naturally troubles all
well-brought-up adolescents is whether sexu-
ality in some or all of its forms is “*bad.”’ They ~
see very contradictory attitudes on the part of ©
the adult world. It’s all very well for parents te
answer that the sexuality which is part of ri
good marriage is good. But the adolescent —
doesn’t have a marriage and he certainly has
sexual urges.

I think it will help an adolescent to hear his
parent say that psychologists believe that
shame about sexuality is a built-in part of hu-
man nature which all peoples everywhere ex-
perience. It is there to keep sex under control
in the complex and close-knit kind of life that
mankind has to live. The guilt is especially
strong in adolescence because sexuality comes
so suddenly then. It can’t be reasoned away,
any more than guilt about stealing or hurting
another person can be reasoned away. It grad-
ually lessens as a result of the enlightenment
that comes with growing up and the experi-
ence of marriage.

I'd also explain that it’s our religious and
family ideals which then guide us specifically
as to which aspects of sex are wholesome and
noble, and which are considered wrong in the
sense that they are upsetting to other people
or to the individual himself.

Next month I want to discuss some of the
aspects of love and sex which I think all par-
ents should explain to young adolescents.

President Kennedy has again asked for Fed-
eral aid to public-school construction and
teachers’ salaries. I earnestly believe that this
is the only way we will get better schools for
all our children, particularly for those in
poorer regions where the local debt limit has
been reached. But this proposal involves so
many controversies that there will be little
chance of enactment unless all parents in
favor of it will write their congressman and
senators again, soon.

Dr. Spock regrets that it is impossible for him to answer
letters personally. However, he is delighted to receive
suggestions of topics of truly general interest—ED.

LULLABY

BY M. HUBBARD

Do you remember, Hannah, how
they came?

They're still the saame—

The seedless, silly year’s
processional

Of days and weeks; the summer's
witless rain

That augurs nothing but the
same

Retreat to frosted fields and
empty bins.

But the sickness and the
emptiness, they grow.

My heart is weighted so

| cannot drag it to God’s house
again.

There are no words left now to
freight this need.

When last | went to plead,

To pound upon the caseless door
of God,

| was as dumb and cold as winter

_ earth,
comforta

ol «

Of equal impotence with frozen
clods.

They’re doing differently—

Better, no doubt.

A dozen faceless forms to be filled
out,

Books to be read. She said: .

Too bad (and popped her gum) his

hair is red—

Quite hard to match; how many j
rooms,

Your take-home pay each year? q

Dearies, she said,

You're not the first. No better than
the rest; 1

Just take your turn. a

The list is long... six years at
least to wait, ine
This many barren autumns yet to
be.
Hannah, do you know? Do you A the
remember
How the empty cradle rocks so
endlessly?

MARCH, 1962 53

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Many of the weight-control diets
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They supply little food bulk.

This dietary deficit may bring real
distress to some dieters. Because
their systems may be deprived of the
natural food bulk that promotes reg-
ularity, they may be troubled with
constipation.

Fortunately, Kellogg’s ‘““Regular-
ity Breakfast’’—which includes a
serving of Kellogg’s All-Bran or
Kellogg’s Bran Buds—can supply
the bulk that is missing.

The calorie count of this addition
to your diet is low. A half-cup (1 oz.)
of Kellogg’s All-Bran or Kellogg’s
Bran Buds, with 4 oz. of skim milk
and 1 teaspoon of sugar adds up to
fewer than 165 calories.

Weight-control dieters are finding
Kellogg’s All-Bran or Kellogg’s Bran
Buds a pleasant-tasting, reliable way
to get wholesome food bulk. Regu-
larity returns without resorting to
harsh, drug laxatives. And in addi-
tion, they have the satisfaction of
some good solid food.

Why don’t you try it. Just be sure
you get Kellogg’s Original All-Bran
or new Kellogg’s Bran Buds. They’re
at your grocer’s now

Kelloggs
Bran Buds

KELLOGG’S ORIGINAL ALL-BRAN has
been America’s favorite way to get
the benefits of bran for over 40 years.
NEW KELLOGG’S BRAN BUDS is the

modern bran cereal with defatted wheat

germ added.

ITHERE’S A MAN
IN THE HOUSE

BY HARLAN MILLER

Solace for a young bride: a generation of
brave-new-world high-schoolers and collegians
nurtured on 19-cent hamburgers won’t ever
be too critical of young-married cooking!

As a man nears his thirtieth birthday he
ought to explore the technique of shaving
while sitting down. You cut and bleed and
scrape your tender skin less, and you think
lovelier thoughts.

“T notice,” reflects Peter Comfort, impaling
chunks of suet on his wife’s bird feeder, “‘that
the strangest people seem to inherit legacies
from faraway relatives who don’t know ’em.”’

If you don’t want the young to treat you
as if you were born in Charlemagne’s reign,
try wearing tennis shoes and raincoat in a
blizzard; bareheaded, natch.

One quarrel a week probably helps firm up
a marriage. But in your twenties it shouldn’t
last more’n five minutes. (The twenty-minute
quarrel must wait until your thirties.)

Our most extravagant matron paid $55 for a
camel’s-hair coat for her six-year-old daugh-
ter. (But she assured four-year-old sister that
it’d be hers in a year or two, and then baby
brother’s. )

I reveled in my fifth reunion with all three
sisters in twenty years. (We all dieted for the
occasion!) I reminded ’em all I got off our
childhood’s Sunday chicken was wings, and
they declined to let me eat a wing; though
I’m fond of ’em now.

Remember the contagious laughter of child-
hood? When anything your sisters or brothers
said at supper seemed uproariously funny?
You laughed till mom and dad called a halt.
Remember one joke?

My highbrow nephew took me on a tour of
his astonishing University of Minnesota cam-
pus. In munificence it’s comparable to Har-
vard’s; though there’s less ivy.

I’m invited to visit the girls’ dorms at the
state university to see for myself that coed
rooms are neater than the men’s at fraternity
houses. (If I can get by the dragon, that is.)

This is the month I remove my overflow
books from the living room to make room for
my Dream Princess’s winter bulbs and plants.
Literature and I yield to red amaryllis and
white narcissus.

=~
:
é
When I induced our friendly grocer to help
me ship my daughter-in-law the last two din-
ing chairs from my mother’s set, I felt tri-

umphant. It’s taken eighteen months, I’m
that inefficient.

This is our non-Florida year. So we’re mobi-
lizing three sunlamps in the living room,
salting the carpet with sand, turning on the
music and disconnecting the phones. (An
hour in a tub equals two quick dips in the
ocean. )

Don’t let grandma overhear us. A modern
mother of four, not yet thirty, does more
work and makes less fuss about it—and
serves better meals!—than any previous fe-
male generation in history. And without
servants!

Most vivacious fiesta our town’s seen: a
foreign-foods bazaar, with exotic dishes from
some thirty foreign lands, sold in booths at
the Vets Arena by internationally minded
matrons in costume. I wish we had ’em once
a month.

... When Patrick at seven tries to conceal
from me his theory that there isn’t any Santa
Claus,

... Or gentle Tracy at three slugs her eight-
month-old baby brother and he merely grins,
... And our younger son takes the best fam-
ily pictures yet, with the self-timer on his
camera, and jumps into ’em himself,

. . . Or Suzi, while eager to challenge the best-
dressed girls in her kindergarten, agrees to
wait till junior high for a velvet dress,

... And my Lady Love massages my shoul-
ders while I’ve sat at my typewriter four
hours,

Then I concede that bachelorhood’s a dubious .
dilemma after a man’s twenty-five.

“Tell him you notice he’s lost some weight,
or he’ll be there all evening hinting.”

GOOD COFFEE IS LIKE FRIENDSHIP: RICH AND WARM AND STRONG

Good coffee makes the moment.

It’s the friend that’s always there,

To warm you and cheer you and put your world to rights.
So make it this way every time:

A tablespoon of coffee, heaped,

For every welcome cup.

MAKE IT COFFEE. MAKE IT OFTEN. MAKE IT RIGHT.

Pan-American Coffee Bureau, 120 Wall St., N. ¥. 5,

Put the ripe juicy goodness of Del Monte Fruits to-
gether with the bright beautiful delight of Jeli-O
Gelatin, and set them on a pedestal of cake. Re-
sult: The most lavish looking and luscious tasting
desserts you ever made. And believe it or not,
they’re very simple. Look...

Peach Upside Down Cake

1 package (3 oz.) JELL-O Lemon Gelatin
* 1 cup boiling water - 1 can (1 Ib. 1 02z.)
DEL MONTE Sliced Peaches - 1 baked
8-inch white cake layer

Dissolve Jell-O in boiling water. Pour syrup from Del Monte
Brand Sliced Peaches and add water to equal 1 cup. Add to
Jell-O. Chill until slightly thickened. Place peaches in 8-inch
layer pan. Add about 11/4 cups Jell-O, covering fruit. Place
cake layer on Jell-O in pan, top side up. Pour remaining thick-
ened Jell-O on cake, spreading over top and down sides. Chill
until firm, about 3 hours. Unmold and serve with whipped
topping, if desired. Makes 6 servings.

@ g 5 C Fruit Cockta/l Crown Cake
Ve yr) nD 1 package (3 oz.) JELL-O Rasp-
: ; berry Gelatin - 1 cup boiling water
i y - 1 can (1 Ib. 14 oz.) DEL MONTE
bk OD 34— Fruit Cocktail - 2 baked 9-inch

white cake layers, or one baked
8-inch white cake layer, split

Ss 4 Dissolve Jell-O in boiling water. Pour syrup from fruit cocktail,
measuring 1 cup. Add to Jell-O. Scatter Del Monte Fruit Cock-
A tail in each of two 9-inch layer cake pans, reserving some for

garnish. Pour Jell-O over fruit in pans. Chill a few minutes until

Jell-O just begins to thicken.

A Place cake layers on Jell-O in pans, top side up. (If split 8-inch
layers are used, place cut sides down on Jell-O in pans.) Chill
/ until firm, about 3 hours. To serve, unmold one layer, inverting

it onto a large plate. Unmold second layer and place on top of
first, Jell-O side up. Garnish with whipped cream or prepared
dessert topping and reserved fruit cocktail. Serve with addi-
tional whipped topping. Makes 8 to 10 servings.

Golden Ring Cupcakes

2 packages (3 oz. each) JELL-O Lime
Gelatin - 2 cups boiling water - 1 can (1 |b.
4‘/2 oz.) DEL MONTE Sliced Pineapple -
6 packaged individual sponge cake shells

a ed

Dissolve Jell-O in boiling water. Pour syrup from Del Monte
Pineapple and add water to equal 2 cups. Add to Jell-O. Chill
until almost set. Place a pineapple slice in bottom of each of
six 10-oz. glass baking cups. Add 1/3 cup thickened Jell-O to
each. Top each with a sponge shell, flat side up. Fill in around
sides of shells with remaining Jell-O. Chill until firm, about
3 hours. Unmold and serve with whipped topping, if desired.
Makes 6 servings.

Do tt bright with
Del Monte’ Fruits
and Jell-O

ff 8 t- <>

2 DELICIOUS FLAVORS

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ILLUSTRATED BY MIA CARPENTER

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Under the deceptive calm of summer, Hallie se

current of unrest. Against her will. she was caught

CUIfEeNnt OT. UbTeSt. 7 SGNIot TIC! With, stke Wdo Cdalslit

Ayama f yinlancre and Inve TR s y } Y MTR Tre

grama of viorence and iOve. Lid) \

In early June, 1920, Hallie Jones, twelve and a half years old, was ap-
proaching Greenwood, Georgia, from the north, riding on the Macon,
Dublin and Savannah Railway. Benny and Virginia, sitting behind her,
made snorting noises about the railroad. ‘‘M. D. and S.,’’ said Benny,
“must stand for Mighty Damn Slow,” his voice sinking on ‘‘damn’’ so
mamma would not hear. Virginia laughed until she choked. Hallie heard
them from far away because she was watching the passing towns for
signs, for clues to Greenwood. Greenwood was the county seat; it would
have a courthouse at least, and a real depot. It hadto have areal depot
because papa had gone there to work in it. And maybe Greenwood
would have green vistas, white columns behind curving driveways,
spires and monuments, stores with plate-glass windows, fountains and
waterfalls, light and air and grace and order.

Mamma had been talking to Mr. Daughtry, the conductor, as if the
coach were her own sitting room and Mr. Daughtry her honored guest.
She was inquiring about the conductor’s family, whether they lived at
Maconor Vidalia. (Though the line was called Macon, Dublin and Savan-
nah, it stopped short at Vidalia.) Mamma told all about her family: two
daughters backin South Carolina, oneson in the cemetery there, these
three here; she ran on about Glover, whence they came.

When Mr. Daughtry said, ‘‘Greenwood. Your stop’s next,” Hallie
moved past himtoa seat across the aisle. Greenwood must havea white
Southern mansion which she would name Montpelier, Montpelier,
Montpelier; she said it over and over in time with the wheels, letting the
word chime through her mind. Mr. Daughtry stood up, said in a loud,
station-calling voice, ‘‘Greenwood, all off for Greenwood.”’ The train
whistled for a crossing, a few Negro houses came up, a cotton gin, an-
other crossing and there was the courthouse, a red brick building with
a gaunt tower above trees too small for it, shaped like all courthouses

with a tower, and a clock stopped at 8:10. CONTINUED ON PAGE 109

Hallie held her breath to hear better when Miss Beulah, visiting mamma, got on the subject of love and sex.

Was she

amonster...or

only a teenager |

going through |
wen

aphase? ~\ }

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ey “Ahh arbre nef om Pas
‘Wh: SA tinea

_ The lectures made her nervous. Her own brand of trouble
with her sixteen-year-old daughter Carol never seemed to
come up. Then, too, the other women always seemed so
self-assured and untroubled. They were lesser versions of -
i Mrs. Frank Gordon, chairman of the Program Committee, . a
a and the mother of Carol’s best friend, Sue Gordon. Mrs*
Gordon had a degree in psychology. She was tanned, husky-
voiced, smartly turned out, efficient and highly articulate.
{ _ Miranda was the type who sat quietly in the back row. Mrs.

fi Gordon terrified her.

Miranda got home this Saturday at two o’clock. Polly,
her thirteen-year-old, was out bike riding with her friend
Jeannie. Carol had left for her music lesson. The vacuum
cleaner was still sitting in the middle of the living room. The
vacuuming, which was Carol’s job on Saturdays, had not

. been done. Miranda looked at the sweeper, sighed, took a

- step toward it, and halted. Her lips compressed slightly.

Then, as though she had reached the end of an argument,

she turned and walked down the hall to her bedroom.

Carol would be home from her music lesson any minute.
In her bedroom Miranda stood irresolutely, staring at her
reflection in the mirror without seeing it. She was a small,

- gentle woman with gradually graying brown hair. Her eyes,
intensely blue, were more eloquent than her voice. Now they.
were murmuring of confusion and faint despair.

I really must lie down for a while before Carol gets home,
she thought. She glanced at the clock and then dropped
onto the bed. Maybe she could catch at least ten minutes. ne
On weekdays she always managed a half hour before Carol :
got home from school. She had been doing it since Carol
_ entered high school, but she still felt a little secretive about

oe her naps. How could anybody be expected to understand
fy a perfectly healthy woman had to sleep so much?

I simply can’t get into the habit of sleeping on Saturday,

= “Miranda thought. The whole family will think I’m sick.
But there was that vacuum cleaner to be reckoned with.

Carol had not done her job CONTINUED ON PAGE 104

ai)

rot
DES

SESE ACES 55

4 a s a
I need help,” thought Miranda as tears came to her eyes. ‘My own daughter hates me.”

63
Annabelle was all lace and frills. It about

drove Ma crazy. Naturally, they fought.

By VICTORIA CASE

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We call it Peavine Ridge now, that wild and lovely part
of the Oregon coast hills, but back in the 1850’s it be- |
longed to the bears and the Brickers, and some people
said you couldn’t tell them apart. Ma Bricker was a giant |

of a woman and her five sons bigger than she was, and

they led a wild, free life, up there in their roomy cabin,
until the boys got the notion of finding wives.

Ma had a time of it, to be sure, hunting out women

well muscled and enduring, and good with guns. She got
Abel and Nimrod and Samson and Enoch all settled in

new cabins, near at hand, and was about to look after
Jubal, the youngest, when she found he’d stolen away in-
to the valley without her knowing and had his bride all

|
chosen and pledged. Ma hiked down almost to town to |
have a sight of the girl, and came as near fainting as she |

ever had in her life.

What a mess she was, this Annabelle, small and white
and soft-haired, and dressed in something that wouldn’t
last ten minutes in the brush. Ma ground her teeth, want-
ing to seize that white Meck and wring it as she’d wring
a chicken for the pot; but you can’t always do what you
want, even in the Oregon country, so she trudged home
and set on Jubal.

“She wouldn’t dare look a rabbit in the face,” she
stormed, and when Ma stormed the hills shuddered.
“She’s no fit mate for a Bricker, and I won’t have her on
the place.”’

Jubal was surely bewitched by the girl. ““We’re getting

married, Ma,” he told her, actually swelling his muscles
at his ma, who had suckled and reared him, and knocked
him endways when he gave her any sass; and his eyes
seemed to be shooting sparks, just like his pa. If she’d
been able to shed tears, this would have been the time,
for Pa Bricker was the only man she’d ever respected,
the only one she’d ever known that she feared to rouse
to full anger, and now here was Jubal, her baby, looking
just like him. She was suddenly shot through with such
lonesomeness that she had to ax down three fir trees and

trim the limbs off before she got control.

She had no idea of giving up. Jubal couldn’t tie himself
to a weakling girl, and beget a string of white-faced chil-
dren who’d shiver if they saw the bushes move. So she
softened her ways, the best she could, and sweet-talked
Ee him a bit. ‘““Now, Jube,” she coaxed him, toning down her
customary bellow, “‘likely I’ve misjudged the girl. Bring her
up to get acquainted. I had it in mind,” she said, with what

she hoped was wistfulness, “‘that you, being the last, would

keep your home here and tend your ma in her age-weak-
ness.”’ CONTINUED ON PAGE 101

Jubal bore Annabelle off to their cabin, with Ma following closely behind.

HAT MARVELOUS
AMERICAN

There she goes, walking fast, swinging along with a
flash of pretty legs, young, perpetually busy, easy in

her clothes, with a look of fashion. This is the look

known round the world. This spring, the zestful

change to full skirts, tiny waistlines tightly belted,

short jackets and pencil-princess coats precisely fits
the style, the pace of the American woman. Here
they are New York to Los Angeles, selected by Journal
Fashion Editor Wilhela Cushman, photographed in

the new fashions, telling you why they like them.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY HORST

|
ae
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i
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|
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J
4)
A gently fitted coat. Mrs. Joseph Verner Reed Jr., of Washington, D.C. (left), Miss Geraldine Stutz, of New York (above), president of Bendel’s, career
; : thinks “‘the cut is divine... fun that fashion gets your figure back.” She girl extraordinaire, is the exponent of the pencil-princess coat, collar-
; ; ,
/ sees it commuting between the capital and New York. Christian Dior, N.Y. less neckline. Simple, prophetic and trend-making, by James Galanos.

THAT MARVELOUS AMERICAN LOOK

Mrs. William L. LaFollette, of Phoenix, Arizona, does her fashion think-
ing, American style, for the life she leads. The easy coat in pastel plaid and

the crepe dress by Sarmi are good for ground or air. (She flies her own plane.)

From Fort Worth, Texas, Mrs. Amon G. Carter Jr. wears a spring-green

tweed by Hattie Carnegie, which is a three-season fashion in the Southwest.

Mrs. F. Kirk Johnson likes the alpaca dress, plaid coat by Philippe Tournaye.

Mrs. Prewitt Semmes Jr., of Los Angeles (left), in Norell’s silhouette with the
short jacket, full whirling skirt. “‘I adore this new idea in suits and my husband

is crazy about it .. . it’s perfect from lunch through dinner.” Wool with surah silk.

Mrs. William C. Turner, also of Phoenix, wears suits ten months of the year.

“T like this pale beige one with the pleated skirt and the homespun look be-

cause it is so comfortable and versatile for Arizona.” By Alvin Handmacher.

Color above all. Mrs. Semmes with her gold-blond hair wears Norell’s greenest

green tweed short-jacket suit (her favorite shade), this one with

and six pockets. The pretty bow blouse is of white surah, her

a slim skirt

aloves

white.

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TARR A AP A A
fain
FMT
Pee rR

IGray flannel has become an American tradition—
irom the first ‘‘best’’ suit for a three-year-old boy
jto the most exciting Chanel-inspired costume for
this mother. Teenagers love gray-flannel skirts with
tsweaters, blazers with emblems, Bermuda shorts
Jand slacks. As a fashion fabric, it is timeless and

ageless. It is universally becoming, and you have a

gamut of shades from the palest to the deepest

charcoal to choose from. 1. One of the newest and
one of the most flattering shapes for spring is the
princess silhouette. Braid buttons go down the
front and the away-from-the-neckline stand-up

sollar is filled with pearls. Polka-dot hat by Sally

Pf | Se ee

Oy te te eel
23 : Mes

ee ee

Victor. Dress, Vogue Design No. 5500: 2. One of
the most understated but most wearable dresses
this spring is this chiffon-weight pale-gray flannel
with a lowered waistline. Wear it with a small
white straw calot. Dress, Vogue Design No. 5492.
3. In this beautiful room where the House of Bur-
gesses, America’s oldest legislative assembly, met
during the eighteenth century, our model is wear-
ing a separate costume made up of a bell-shaped
gray-flannel skirt with a simple jacket with white-
braid pompons. Vogue Design No. 5322; Jacket,
No. 5438. 4. A gray-flannel coat goes happily over

most everything. Ours has gray pearl buttons, a

ITHER VIEWS, SIZES, PRICES OF VOGUE PATTERNS ON PAGE 106

RON,
PHOTOGRAPHS BY FRANCES GILL

neat tie at the neckline. Underneath, a paisley
sheath; paisley hat by Madcaps. Coat, Vogue
Design No. 5481. Dress, No. 5236. 5. The “all
American”’ schoolgirl wears a gray-flannel blazer
with a matching gray-flannel pleated skirt. Her
outfit, Vogue Design No. 5501. Above: Sight-seeing
in Colonial Williamsburg, gray flannel is a family
affair. Mother wears a pale-gray braid-trimmed suit
a la Chanel with a white silk blouse. Sister wears
a gray flannel jumper topped with a matching gray
jacket. Junior wears a conventional gray-flannel suit
with white shirt. Mother’s suit, Vogue Design No.

. Girl’s costume, No. 5504. Boy’s suit, No. 5498.

By NORA O’LEARY
PATTERN EDITOR

ring 3

rettiest

jo
aia

If you enjoy being a girl, you'll love the new
spring hairdos, designed with one purpose in
mind: to flatter the face. Gone are the bee-
hives, haystacks, bouffants which called at-
tention mainly to themselves. Instead, hair
is softer, lines more flowing, highlights even
richer thanks to the magic new rinses. Em-
phasized here: the asymmetric look—off one
ear, on the other, hair worn closer to the head
with no rigid teasing or back combing. Easy
to manage (and to admire), these frankly
feminine hairstyles will be a delight to behold
not only in the spring but all summer long.

With less use of back combing and “‘teasing,”’
the all-important cut and shaping assume
more emphasis than ever. This marvelous
blunt cut by Mr. Kenneth may be combed out
to achieve either this free-and-easy arrange-
ment or the suave design accented with lilies
of the valley, shown diagonally below. Sim-
plicity and gentleness of line are the basis for
both of these completely feminine hair designs.

A soft wave at top gives height to this hair-
style by Enrico Caruso. Sides are kept close
to face. (Especially good face flattery for a
round or full face.) For a more formal evening,
the sides can be brushed back behind the ears
for a smoother and more sophisticated style.

A hairstyle as soft and flattering as the
flowered-chiffon dress she wears. For this type
of shaping, hair must be tapered (cut in
layers) to frame the face gently. The set, on
large rollers, gives height and fullness to
crown section. Side hair is combed back be-
hind the ears with ends turning up. Bangs
curve softly to the side. Earrings by Marvella.

A hairstyle (right) uncomplicated enough to
go beautifully with daytime fashion, dramatic
enough for evening glamour. A clean sweep of
line is achieved by brushing hair from temple
level up and across top of head into a soft
wave. Hair at the other side is brushed behind
the ear with ends turning under. Clear sea-
mist earrings by Vogue accent the asymme-
try of the design. Hairstyle by Enrico Caruso.

For setting directions for all hair designs,
see page 120.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY KAREN RADKAI

THE WOMAN'S MIND...

Shaping the ’60’s ... Today’s young American women, blessed with more education,

more money, broader interests than ever before, are thinking deeply and imaginatively
about themselves and their families. How has motherhood changed their ideas about
marriage, morals, happiness? The Journal’s third comprehensive survey by George
Gallup tells frankly what young mothers of 18 to 30 think about “the good life” they
are living today, what they expect from the years ahead ...Foreshadowing the ’70’s

_. AMERICAS YOUNG MOTHERS

Four young mothers out of ten say their first
child was not planned, but “just happened.”’
One in five found motherhood disappointing
at first, and four in ten admit there were
times after the birth of the first child when
they felt they didn’t want any more chil-
dren. A third still feel that way. Nor do
husbands always adjust easily to fatherhood.

‘Before the baby came I waited on my
husband,” admitted a 21-year-old Texas
girl. ‘““He was slow in realizing he wasn’t my
‘baby’ any more.”’ And a Virginia wife com-
plained that her husband neither enjoyed
the children as much as she anticipated nor
accepted as much responsibility for them—
“*T feel resentment over this!”’

But nine out of ten young mothers all over
the country love their husbands more after
the arrival of the first child, 54 percent con-
sider their marital relations improved, and
two thirds find children the greatest satis-
faction in marriage. ““We are closer, have
more affection for each other, work harder
for the children, and resolve any differences
we have for their sake,” one mother reported.
And another: “I think my husband loves me
more after each baby. After all, all three
look like him! He beams with pride.”

Although a whopping three fourths of the
mothers in our survey loved their babies at
first sight, almost 25 percent believed that
maternal love developed gradually, through
care of the child.

“Children demand a great deal of time
and attention,” said one, ‘“‘and often I am too
tired or short-tempered to enjoy my hus-
band’s company.” But usually this is only
temporary. A mother of barely three weeks
said, “‘Having a child has made me more
responsible, it has given me a sense of be-

longing, but most of all it has made me

sleepy!” But a more experienced mother
observed, “‘I find I’m more capable of love
than I ever dreamed, and I’m grateful and a
little overwhelmed by all the love I receive.”

Has motherhood changed these young
women? Forty-one percent say they are less
selfish, and 31 percent believe they have
developed a greater sense of responsibility.
“Having children makes you think, worry,
said one
serious thinker. Another was surprised by

love, and pray for their welfare,”

the depth of her emotions: “‘It released a
flood of love and concern for others that I
didn’t know I was capable of feeling!” A
29-year-old New Yorker rejoiced: ‘““Now I
can enjoy children and being with them. Be-
fore mine were born, I was terrified of them!”’

Very few would sympathize with the de-
spairing cry from Illinois: “It’s turned me
into a shrew!”’

HELP, HELP!

With fully 68 percent reporting that they
sometimes felt “‘too tired to enjoy the baby,”
modern mothers rely heavily on timesaving
aids. In fact, nine out of ten regard prepared
baby foods, automatic washing machines
and high chairs as “very important” and
many would add a playpen, a car seat and an
automatic dryer to their list of indispensables.

Most indispensable is the spouse—nearly
eight in ten say their husbands take some
part in caring for the first baby, and 45 per-
cent help “‘a lot.”

‘“T’m exhausted most of the time, but I
love it,” reported a game young mother
from Missouri. That a majority feel over-
worked is indicated by the frequency with
which they mention ‘‘an evening out”’ or “‘a
trip with my husband”’ as little things that
would make life more exciting. Evidently an

occasional movie or dinner at a pleasant if
inexpensive restaurant is more appealing
to a mother who feels “‘bored and tied down”’
than the prospect of owning a brand-new
car, additional appliances or costly clothes.

A typical comment came from a 30-year-
old who longed for “a night alone with my
husband on the town” and when asked to
specify, said, “Oh, just doing something

y>?

impulsive!

ARE THE BEST THINGS IN LIFE FREE?

It is this impulsive quality of spending
time or money that many seem to miss. One
would like to buy toys for the children
““when the mood hits’’; another wants to “‘be
able to buy a nice ‘something’ even if I
don’t need it’; while a third longs to cook
“whatever I want for company without
juggling the budget.”

Although more than half differ with their
husbands “‘at least sometimes’’ over money
matters, their financial attitude is impres-
sively realistic. The average mother in our
survey believes her family could get along on
$95 a week and is convinced that they would
be able to enjoy some of the special pleasures
in life on $150.

What are these “‘special’” things? After
“more entertainment” (mentioned by 53 per-
cent) travel and vacations are the most-
wanted extras. ““‘Before I push up daisies,”
observed a forward-looking wife pushing 30,
“‘T would like to see Europe and learn some-
thing about other cultures besides our own.”’
But the dream of a young Wisconsin
mother—‘‘A start on a college fund for our
family’’—is shared by barely 7 percent.
One in four, however, would like more or
better clothes, and approximately the same

number dreams of a CONTINUED ON PAGE 96

IRVING PENN

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REFRESHING REVIVAL:
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By H. T. WILLIAMS, DESIGNER

Wallpaper can perform decorating miracles—
perhaps just the one you need for a winter-
weary room. Patterned, it gives you a ready-
made color scheme, so, with a few changes in
curtains and upholstery, you can have a brand-
new room! We think that there is nothing
prettier than a floral pattern to provide a re-
freshing indoor ‘‘view’”’ on four walls. We used
two of them to show you how the type of paper
you choose can help set a decorating mood.
The blossoming-vine paper, copied from an old
French taffeta, established an atmosphere of
traditional formality in the room here which,
with its antiques and reproductions, is reminis-
cent of stately homes in Washington Square or
Williamsburg. On the next pages, the wallpa-
per splashed with sprightly roses like those that
brightened Victorian homes creates the com-
fortable feeling of country-house informality.

The delicate filigree of the climbing-vine pattern
makes a perfect background for the eighteenth-
century elegance of the handsome mahogany
secretary and Chippendale sofa (both copies of
museumantiques). Its colorsare repeated boldly
in rug and furnishings, and accented with
strong violet. Other ideas for you to take from
this room are its window shades which match
the paper (a shade maker will do this for you)
and the drapery design, here green satin, scal-
loped at the edges and lined with violet sateen.

REFRESHING REVIVAL:
PATTERNED WALLPAPER

CONTINUED

The bold, vigorous coloring and the valentine
charm of this rose-strewn paper warmly suit the
simplicity of countrified American and French
furniture in cherry, pine and maple woods.
Jonquil yellow in the café curtains, lampshades
and pillows puts a sunny surprise into the basic
red-and-white scheme. The sofa is an old metal
hotel bed from France which gives this decorat-
ing plan double usefulness: as a guest room or,
perhaps, aS a one-room “home.’’ You might
duplicate the idea with one of the new copies in
wood of a French daybed. The unusual coffee
table is a nineteenth-century spool-turned
child’s cradle turned upside down and, after the
removal of its rockers, fitted with a cherry plank
top. Except for the old mahogany Navy mess
stool that serves as a table beside the uphol-
stered armchair, all the furniture is available
in copies. Notice the corner cupboard, which
the handyman in your family or the local car-
penter could construct for a decorative storage
area in your living room.

FOR SHOPPING INFORMATION, WRITE:
Miss Judy Waters, Ladies’ Home Journal,
1270 Avenue of the Americas, New York 20, New York

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HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY

It still takes two to have a baby. But Lynne and Jim Rankin, of
Oakland, California, found it takes a whole community, from doting
grandparents to friends, to have a baby modern American style.

“OUR BABY
9

EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS

By NEAL GILKYSON STUART
PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOSEPH DI PIETRO

Jeffery James Rankin, firstborn of James F.
and Lynne Rankin, of Oakland, California,
came into the world last August seventh with-
out a nickel in his jeans.

He was born with his twenty-six-year-old
father, Jim, capped and gowned beside the
delivery table, holding Jeff’s mother’s hand.
When Jeff gave his first cry, Lynne said,
“Honey, did you get your boy?”

“T don’t know yet,” said Jim; and then, a
moment later, ‘It’s a boy!’ Gently their
obstetrician laid the warm seven-pound bun-
dle on Lynne’s abdomen. Jeff’s principal en-
dowments were a fine head of black hair
(from his mother), rosy, filled-out cheeks (“I
understood all new babies were ugly,” says
Lynne, ‘but he wasn’t a bit!’’), a tightly
clenched fist and a wandering stare. His first
diaper nearly swallowed him up. Yet toothless
and penniless though he was, he represented a
mighty contribution to the American econ-
omy. Well over $4,000,000,000 a year is spent
in this country on the safe delivery of 4,200,000
new babies, and on their health, comfort and
adornment during tneir first year—an average
of $1000 apiece. Spokesmen for the manufac-
turers of infants’ clothing, furniture, food and
drugs estimate that the money comes from
“doting parents, grandparents, relatives and
friends,” for no one, not even the U. S. Depart-
ment of Commerce, underestimates the wide
circle around a new baby. Jeffery James, a first
grandchild on his mother’s side, had, at the
time of his arrival, already begun to stimulate
his fair share of this commerce and a bit more.

As it happened, on the day he was born his
father didn’t have much more than a nickel in
his jeans either. Jeff was a “‘planned”’ baby in
that Jim and Lynne had decided about a year
before his birth that it was time to start a fam-
ily. A charmingly decorated nursery (largely

the work of a doting grandmother) awaited him
in the small, cheerful apartment that would be
his home. Bassinet, sterilizer, baby coach and
playpen were already on loan (relatives and
friends) for his use. He had been staked ahead
of time (an uncle here) to a diaper service.
Even the hospital bill he entailed had been pre-
paid (by daddy) at the rate of $50 a month
during May, June and July. Yet when the small
family had arrived at the hospital in the pre-
dawn of that August Monday, Jim had only a
little silver in his pockets. Lynne was better
off—she had $1.53 in her purse, plus two lucky
silver dollars that weren’t supposed to be spent.
In the bank was $88.03.

Jeff hadn’t been due for another few days—
preferably nearer Jim’s next paycheck on the
fifteenth. But the night before, Lynne hadn’t
been able to sleep because she felt “‘achy.”’ At
3:30 in the morning her waters broke, and she
woke Jim up, asking, ‘““What shall I do?”

Freckle-faced Lynne, with large eyes and a
gamine haircut, is just five feet tall and ordi-
narily weighs ninety-five pounds, and three
years before, at the time of her marriage, she
had made a quiet decision that Jim and Jim
only was to be the mainstay of her life. Jim
immediately took over the role of pillar of
strength which he was to keep all during Lynne’s
labor and delivery. He says, “‘I knew she was
scared, because she was cross, and Lynne is
never cross. I read aloud to her from our mater-
nity book, and of course she had labor pains
and didn’t know it. Then I got out my watch,
and then I called the doctor, who told us to go
ahead to the hospital. Then J began scolding
her because she didn’t have a bag packed. We
both took showers and dressed and were at the
door when I felt my chin and asked Lynne,
‘Did I shave?’ I went back and shaved with
my necktie on.” CONTINUED ON PAGE 80

Lynne and Jim had shared Dr. Spock, shared the hours of labor and delivery, were comfortable with Jeff from the first. |

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 78 They reached Herrick Memorial Hospital
at five in the morning. Lynne’s team of obstetricians had offered her a
choice of two hospitals, but she and Jim had unhesitatingly chosen
Herrick Memorial because it allows the couples who wish it to be
together during labor and delivery. (““Ten to fifteen percent of our
mothers and fathers choose this,”’ says Mrs. Alice Johnson, head nurse
of the maternity service. ‘When people ask us if we allow fathers to
watch their wives deliver, we say, ‘No. A father comes into the delivery

room not as a spectator but as an active participant.’’’)

They had a private labor room, and now began the long period of

waiting. Lynne says, “Jim didn’t rub my back or anything. Oakland
has no preparation-for-childbirth classes yet, and the only arrange-
ments we had made were that I wanted as little sedative as possible
and I wanted to nurse my baby. A nurse came in and taught me how to
breathe during contractions. Jim just held my hand and kept telling
me everything was all right. And that was enough! I think to have
your husband there is the greatest thing in the world. It gave me such
a feeling of security.”

But Lynne was perfectly cheerful and self-confident herself. In the
course of the morning she gave Jim the dollar bill from her handbag

and sent him out to get some breakfast. The dimes they had between

LEFT
In spite of overhead mir-

ror so she could watch,
Lynne kept her eyes tight

shut until moment of birth.

BOTTOM
Lynne was too excited to

sleep in the hospital, yet
emerged fresh and lively.

Jim looked under strain.

RIGHT

During first days at home,
Jim handled the sterilizer,
evening meals and the baby
with equal deftness.

FAR RIGHT

Jim says, “‘Lynne’s too
good for me.’ He yielded

at last minute to Lynne’s

be code, |
JOE MUNROE

wish to name son for him.

Pew ey epee: 5 2 ara
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them were swallowed by a telephone for bulletins to Lynne’s parents, |
who live in nearby Piedmont, and to his office. At 1:03 P.M. Jeffery |
James was born. Jim, who had been raised on a farm and seen a baby |
born in Mexico, remained calm. “The only disturbing thing was seeing |
Lynne in pain. I was more relieved than elated, because of Lynne’s
small size. The elation didn’t hit me until later.”

Leaving Lynne relaxed, happy and tired in a semiprivate room, |
Jim went out into the afternoon. He drove first to their apartment |
house halfway up a small but almost perpendicular hill in the Monty.

clair district of Oakland. It is a modest apartment building nestling ont ||!

several levels, and their landlady keeps luxuriant flower boxes on every ~
ledge. After lunching healthily on milk and cold cuts in their two-
bedroom apartment, Jim’s next step was to raise some money. He vis-
ited their local supermarket and there cashed a check for $15. Then,

the elation growing within him, he immediately spent five of them ona _ })

box of cigars. Next he visited a drugstore where, following Lynne’s in-

structions, he bought two dozen extra baby-announcement cards and |

two four-ounce baby bottles. These came to $2, but he wrote out a check qt

for $3. With the extra dollar he went to the post office and bought a |
dollar’s worth of stamps. He now had bought everything Lynne had |
directed him to, and he had $10 in his wallet, but his bank account was *

HK.

at
aa”

: | down to $70.03. He thought more than once of the hospital bill ahead
_|of him before the end of the week; he had been told it would run be-
‘ tween $180 and $200. Of course he had prepaid $150, but the remainder
‘was going to cut awfully close. Nothing daunted, he next took himself
to a florist’s shop.

That night, when visiting hours began, Lynne sat propped in her
bed and enjoyed one of the finest fruits of being a mother—the beam-
‘ing faces of her family. She gave Jim a huge hug and kiss, her mother
jand father, Mr. and Mrs. Robert S. Norman Jr., hugs of their own.
\Jim was bearing a dozen red roses, Mrs. Norman was carrying two
igift-wrapped boxes. Never mind Jim’s bank account. Now that Jeff’s

= sex was finally known, a grandmotherly heart could let go. Word was

already out to new uncles and aunts. A member of Lynne’s bridge club

w) had called as soon as she had heard the news. The commerce around
») Jeff could begin in earnest.

As it worked out, Jim’s final hospital bill was $37.74. He wrote one

more $15 check to the grocery store, this one spent entirely on stocking
»™the refrigerator for Lynne’s homecoming, and made the fifteenth of the
month with $17.29 to spare. Buried among the groceries was one more
purchase that had been made directly for Jeff, a 37-cent bottle of

w@corn syrup for a sugar-water supplement to Lynne’s nursing.

SSS

Lynne and Jeff came home on Thursday, after a minimum hospital
stay of three days. Jim was fully prepared to assume total responsibil-
ity for his son (he had $17 in bank, hadn’t he?), but to both his and
Lynne’s bewildered pleasure he scarcely had a chance. While Lynne
nursed Jeff with increasing success and pride, and while Jim worked for
rent and groceries (and the doctor’s bill to come), others were having
the fun of walking into a baby shop and picking out delectable items.
Jeff came home with a basic wardrobe, for presents had begun to roll
in while he was still in the hospital. His grandmother hadn’t visited a
single day without bearing something new under her arm. She arrived
with blankets, sacques, shirts, gowns and a going-home outfit. On the
last day she became practical and brought diapers. When Lynne
walked in the door of the apartment on Jim’s arm, there on the table
was a sizable mountain of gaily wrapped presents—the results of a
shower given by her bridge club. Lynne’s grandmother in Santa Bar-
bara had already dropped a $50 check in the mail. That afternoon Jim’s
sister telephoned from Sacramento. Had anyone given Jeff a car bed
yet? she asked guardedly.

Mrs. Norman put aside her own affairs during Lynne’s first few
days at home and spent her days at the apartment, cleaning, feeding

everyone lunch (including Jim), fussing CONTINUED ON PAGE 134

PHOTOGR

WES

’T* . . - * . , , - . 3
he striped-ticking draperies are opened and looped out of the way at dinnertime. At meal’s end they're loosened to curtain the kitchen.

SKVHIONt Kitchen

By MARGARET

DAVIDSON nomemaKkING EDITOR

LEY BALZ

Short on space, long on ability! That’s the
little skylight kitchen which emerged bright
and busy from space once lost under the eaves.
With a cooking lineup 9’9” long, less than 4’
deep, it shows one way to make the most of
the cramped quarters usually forgotten in
attics and garages.

The first step toward transformation was a
decision to do something. Later, the how-to-do
fell logically into line. To give headroom, the
sloping roof was raised dormer fashion.
Softened daylight shines through its ceiling
panels of translucent fiber-glass plastic, thus

eliminating the need for windows (there was nc
view to frame) and enabling the wall to be used
for storage. Just under the wall shelf is a strig
of lighting which sends a cheerful glow about
the room by night.

Spacesaving appliances give the little kitcher
its will to work. Though just 28” wide, the
refrigerator has more than nine cubic feet o}}
storage, including lots of room for cubes, 1cé
cream and frozen food. The oven, eye-leve
because it stands on the counter, has a four!
unit surface cooking section that folds uf}
when it’s not in use, freeing needed countel

DISH... FID

TRUAX

will have to try them to discover
for yourselves the new and delight-
ful taste sensations that will prob-
ably make Hawaiian fish your
favorite dish!

With the fish available to you
hroughout the year in local mar-
kets, you can make Polynesian
Fish, Island Fried Fish, South Sea
Fish and Lomi Lomi Salmon.

ISLAND FRIED FISH

| It’s dipped in batter for a crisp golden
crust, served with hot pineapple sauce.

214-3 pounds 1 egg
white fish fillets 3 teaspoons baking
(fillet of sole, powder

flounder, sea bass, 1 teaspoon salt
etc., are all good) 1% teaspoon pepper
4 cup soy sauce 2(1-lb.-41-0z.)cans
6 cup flour pineapple chunks
6cupcornstarch 34 cup sugar
About lcupmilk Cooking oil

ash the fish, pat dry and cut into
bieces about 114” square. Marinate in
he soy sauce for 20-30 minutes, turn-
Ming once or twice. Combine flour, corn-
‘¥tarch, milk, egg, baking powder and
Heasonings to make a thin batter, about
smhe consistency of very heavy cream.
Pour the pineapple and syrup into a
saucepan, stir in the sugar, and heat
rery gently and thoroughly. Pour cook-

g oil into a heavy skillet to a depth of
1". Heat to 375° F. on a deep-fat-
rying thermometer.*When ready, drain
ihe: fish of extra soy sauce, dip quickly
to the batter, drain-a bit, and plunge
to the hot oil. A two-tined cooking
ork is the best for this. Add as many
leces as you can at one time—but be
re that the temperature of the oil
ays at 375° F. The fish will cook in

bout 1 or 2 minutes, when
CONTINUED ON PAGE 100

idl

| ISLAND FISH WITH PINEAPPLE
ws RICE WITH TOASTED ALMONDS

Familiar food, exotic variations

st OR MACADAMIA NUTS
: PEAS WITH SCALLIONS
eh OR SNOW PEAS

i) -- COLD COFFEE SOUFFLE

am WITH CHOCOLATE CURLS

NORMAN KARLSON

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Homemaking Editor

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PHOTOGRAPHS BY NORMAN KARLSON

Lae 8 EE eer

OIX OUPERR WAYS WITH

UHIGKEN

Chicken—fricasseed, broiled,
braised, served with golden
biscuits, soft-crumbed or
crisp—this is the dinner to
have when the whole family
gets together, a dinner which
we know everyone will love.

CHICKEN AND VEGETABLES
IN MILK GRAVY
An old-fashioned fricassee; subtly delicious gravy.
Bake crisp-crust biscuits to do it justice.

1 roasting chicken 2 tablespoons
(4—5 Ibs.) quartered chopped parsley
'4 cup flour 12 peeled small
11% teaspoons salt white onions
14 teaspoon pepper 6 carrots, scraped
14 cup butter and cut into chunks
or margarine 2 cups milk
]

2 cups chicken broth ; teaspoon nutmeg

Wash chicken and pat dry. Dust with flour and
sprinkle with 14 teaspoon salt and 14 teaspoon
pepper. Brown slowly in butter in a heavy cas-
serole. Pour in chicken broth and add parsley.
Cover and bake in a moderate oven, 350° F.,
1 hour, basting chicken occasionally. Meanwhile,
parboil onions and carrots for about 15 minutes.
Drain and arrange around chicken. Cover; re-
turn to oven and continue baking until chicken
and vegetables are done, about 30 minutes. Re-
move to serving dish and turn broth into a
saucepan. Skim if necessary. Make a thin paste
of 1% cup flour and % cup cold water. Add to
broth, stirring constantly. Then add milk and
simmer until thickened. When sauce has reached
boiling point, add remaining seasonings and
pour over chicken and vegetables. Serve over
split hot biscuits. Makes 6 servings.

CRISP-CRUST BISCUITS

2 cups sifted flour 34 cup milk

1 tablespoon baking 1 tablespoon dried
powder parsley (optional)

1 teaspoon salt Pinch thyme, mar-

7 tablespoons joram (optional)

shortening
CONTINUED ON PAGE 103

NORMAN KARLSON

This dinner could become a weekly habit: asteamingtureenof chicken

and vegetables, hot biscuits, an orange-and-avocado tossed salad.

Oo
IO

FROM Me
10 YOU

By MARCELENE COX

My two-year-old granddaughter, Amy, listens with bright-
eyed wonder as I begin, “Once there was a little girl

e ‘Mother, do you remember that March when a
blizzard hugged us in for four days, but father
read to us and you made each one’s favorite des-
sert? Wasn’t it a happy time, mother!’ What is
more wonderful to a father and mother than to
plant beautiful experiences in the memories of
children? Then, long after they are grown, the gold
may be returned when needed most.

e Whether or not you are one who can spell
“ecstasy” without looking it up, you should know
that a delicately browned bird, rounded with
stuffing, causes ecstasy when set before the family.
Our favorite stuffing is the old-fashioned one that
scents the kitchen with sage and onion. What’s
yours?

e@ Pepper now comes flavored! It’s pepper all right,
but it’s miore. On the tongue you can taste black
pepper, sweet red pepper, paprika, a bit of sugar, a
hint of cayenne and the echo of an aromatic spice.
A real flavor excitement.

® For years, Boston’s baked beans, comfortable in

} £

success, have depended, for their rich flavor, on

e addition of molasses. Next time you pan-
broil ham, drib a little molasses on that red-
brown surface just after you turn it, for a shiny,
half-sweet glaze. Or stir spoonful into your
nightly hot drink of milk. You'll sleep like an angel

and, with the extra dash of iron in your system,

wake feeling fit.

DI PIETRO

e In your family, if you find it necessary to say
“Eat your spinach!” try this recipe and you will
have an “‘asked-for’’ dish. Cook 1 package frozen
chopped spinach, following directions on the label.
Drain, and season with 14 teaspoon garlic salt, 2
tablespoons butter and 14 teaspoon anchovy paste.
That’s the secret!

A woman reduced gains favor;
A sauce reduced gains flavor.

e If he came in like a lamb the night before, you
want him to leave like a lamb, don’t you? Why
not serve him a substantial breakfast of . . . say,
country sausage and apple rings? Hot buttered
toast ?

@ I once hit the jackpot with six double-yolk eggs
in one dozen. Straightway baked a Golden Sponge-
cake. Made it with slivers of candied orange peel
mixed through.

e Pigs in Blankets in my mother’s house was an
onion-seasoned forcemeat of leftover roast pork,
pocketed in triangles of flaky piecrust. Baked fast
and served with hot, deep-brown gravy, well pep-
pered. With it we always had a crisp green salad,
with thin shreds of white cabbage tossed in. A meal
to end a day of buffeting March winds.

e@ ‘““When I grow up and have a kitchen of my
own,” I once said to my mother, “‘I’ll bake and
bake and bake.” I have and I do. And often I bake
mixes from a box! Most recent joy is a scone mix.
Beautiful word! And beautiful scones, crisp in the
crust, sweet and soft in the crumb. Butter? Jam?
Both!

@ Women, bow your heads! It was a marine who
“To peel grapefruit and
oranges easily, let them stand in hot water eight

thought these up: (a

minutes before using the knife.” (b) ““Crack fresh
eggs on the edge of an unopened can of liquid. It
serves as a shock absorber, and results in consider-
ably fewer broken yolks.”’ We add: and tempers!

e@ Maple-sugar time in Michigan! Mamma always
served our maple syrup like a little pool of spring’s
gold for our very own. We trickled it over hot just-
split-open buttered biscuits. A delicious memory!

@ My childhood comes back to me with Rainbow
Treat. Old-fashioned? My grandchildren love it
now, and it is quick magic for the hands of a busy
mother: Set different layers of fruit-flavored gelatin
with strawberries in the middle layer. Top with
whipped cream.

@ What’s a freezer for, if not for hoarding? Bread,
for instance!

e Plenty of bread on hand means custardy Bread
Pudding. Remember the way the squares of bread
rise to the surface during baking—and how the
edges crisp so delicately? Or Apple Brown Betty
with raisins, or French Toast! We called the latter
Fried Bread, as we sifted it generously with pow-
dered sugar.

e Your freezer should have space, too, for frozen
two-crusted pork pies made with tender meat, ap-
ples and vegetables all in a lightly seasoned gravy.
Or perhaps you prefer the new single-crusted frozen
chicken or beef pies that are remindful of the ones
they used to serve at church suppers.

e@ In our church Mrs. Harris bakes her chicken or
beef pies in a long dark “dripping pan” and serves
them out with an enormous flashing kitchen spoon.
But the new ones are just as full of beef or chicken,
tender cubes of colorful vegetables and rich meat
gravy.

e At our house, we turn tame rice into “‘wild” by
shaking it popcorn style, in a hot skillet, until it’s
pale gold in color—no fat added! Cook as usual.
The browning produces a wonderful flavor for a
day that has lost some brightness.

e Ten pounds of milk, they say, is what is required
to make one pound of Cheddar cheese. Earnest cal-
culation indicates that one ounce is as full of milk
fats, minerals, proteins and vitamins as a child is
full of warmth, strength, love and energy. Soufflé
it, or make a golden puff to top a favorite dish, and
you and the cheese will be in the upper social strata.

e@ In pursuit of gastronomy try this: Add a cupful
of finely chopped nuts to the milk in your next
chocolate soufflé. Gives it considerable flavor.

e Kitchen decorator: baby in a high chair.

e Always intended to take a week off to learn how
to make good puff pastry. Now that it’s available
frozen, I may skip learning, and buy the frozen
fruit turnovers.

e@ My newest gourmet meal for two costs no more
than fifty cents and takes no longer than fifteen
minutes to prepare. Cut peeled potatoes (about 2)
into chunks and drop into the blender with 1 large
egg, 14 cup water, pinch of salt and 14 cup pancake
mix. Blend to a pulp, spoon onto hot griddle and
cook to golden crispness. Have the plates hot,
really hot, and serve at once with applesauce,
pale, tart and chilled. ““Light and utterly delect-
able,”’ declared a recent guest.

e For refreshing tartness, spoon 1 teaspoon com-
mercial sour cream on thinly sliced oranges. Sprin-
kle with cinnamon. Serve in your prettiest glass
dish.

e Looking for low-calorie appetizers to serve at
parties? For new taste sensations, look for crunchy
three-inch sticks of pickled pascal celery; spiced
rosebud beets (about as big as a ball of bubble

s-*

;

gum); pickled water chestnuts, crisp as nut brittle; 4

a jar of dry-salted almonds, pecans and peanuts.
This means that no fat has been used in the toast-
ing. You can find them in fancy grocery shops.

e Last-chance-to-fill-up department! If you like
cheese biscuits, and the homemade variety seems
too calorie-high, there’s an English cheese biscuit
that is so thin you can almost see through it, and
so it is better to call it a wafer, strong of Parmesan
cheese, with a touch of mustard.

|
|
|

*About 1 pound.

MUSHROOM
PORK CHOPS

Trim excess fat from chops. In
skillet, brown chops on both
sides; pour off drippings. Stir in
1 can Campbell’s Cream of Mush-
room Soup, % cup water, and %
cup sliced onion. Cover; cook
over low heat 45 min. or until
chops are tender. Stir now and
then. 4 good nourishing servings.

PORK CHOPS

Trim excess fat from chops. In
skillet, brown chops on both
sides; pour off drippings. Stir in
1 can Campbell’s Tomato Soup, %4
cup water, ¥g tsp. garlic powder.
Top each chop with ¥2 thin lemon
slice. Cover; cook over low heat
45 min. or until chops are tender.
Stir now and then. 4 servings.

SOUP

CELERY
PORK CHOPS

Trim excess fat from chops. In
skillet, brown chops on both
sides; pour off drippings. Stir in
1 can Campbell’s Cream of Celery
Soup, % cup water, and 4% cup
chopped green pepper. Cover;
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WHEN A YOUNG
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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 10

sure that neither one of us accepted the idea
that Sally really “loved’”’ Johnny. We saw it as
an inexplicable infatuation.)

My husband and I believed that our com-
bined love and extreme concern would out-
weigh Sally’s drive in Johnny’s direction.

Next morning Sally’s greeting to her father
was one of questioning entreaty. ““Daddy?”
she said tentatively.

Roger folded her in an embrace with such
helpless tenderness that I wanted to cry. The
more so because Sally’s father is not demon-
strative by nature.

“Did mother tell you?”

“She told me, Sally. We'll talk about it
tonight.”

But first Sally had to show him the ring,
which she now wore concealed on a ribbon
around her neck, at my suggestion.

And so our campaign began.

At first Roger pointed out all the truths that
fathers traditionally point out to daughters—
even under the happiest of circumstances.
That what seems like love in the teens can turn
to ashes at twenty. That girls so young, and
boys too, have no way of knowing themselves,
let alone other people. That they owe it to
their futures to have a broader variety of ex-
perience before they choose a life mate.

These persuasions need not be enlarged
upon. Parents have eternally used them. And
children have been eternally deaf to them.

Sally was.

Then she announced, with pride and dig-
nity, that Johnny wanted to “speak” to her
father. And we helplessly agreed. We asked
her to invite Johnny to dinner. She glowed.

Johnny arrived the next night dressed in his
best, with his hair slicked down. What will you
think of me if I say that I winced at his bluish-
green suit? Will you understand that although
my deepest concern was for my daughter’s
welfare, the surface pinpricks, based on a life-
time of conditioning, were nevertheless there?

After dinner we moved into the living room.
Sally sat with Johnny on the sofa, and as we
faced them, from the other side of an invisible
barrier, I had a split second of insight. I real-
ized that Sally’s deepest emotional alliance
was really with Johnny, and that she had al-
ready left us. But this truth was too hard to
face.

“Mr. Bartholomew,”
to marry Sally.”

I could see Roger’s feelings, kept at such
cost below the surface, begin to flare up. But
he controlled them.

“Sally told me,” he said. Then, visibly strug-
gling for composure, he chose the issue he
thought most effective with Johnny. ““‘How do

said Johnny, “I want

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From one mother’s dictionary:

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The age of reason: When they are too big to
spank.

Leisured class: Mothers whose children are
all in school.”
lines in the matter of a

There are two

woman’s appearance over which she must
cross to be successful.
first, others give her a further glance;
she achieves the second,
selves a further glance.

When she achieves the
when
others give them-

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

you propose to support Sally?” he asked in an
unnaturally mild tone.

“Oh, daddy,” Sally put in quickly, “I’m
going to get a job at first. All the girls do. ’'m
going to take an accelerated secretarial course
and geta job. We’ve got it all figured out.
Look.” With an air of innocent triumph that
sent a lump to my throat, Sally produced a
carefully written budget, obviously prepared
for the occasion. “Johnny, $75 a week,” it
read. “Sally, $50.” (She has forgotten taxes,
J thought.) “Rent, $80. Entertainment, $2 a
week. Clothes (for both), $10 a month.”

My husband studied the budget silently. The l

enormous ignorance it revealed was too much
for him to tackle at the moment.

Johnny said that of course he didn’t want —
Sally to work for long, and that he hoped one
*

day to own a garage of his own.

“What about the draft?” asked Roger.

Johnny shrugged a Latin shrug. ‘‘We’ll just
have to sweat it out, like everybody else.”

My husband exploded. “And leave Sally
stranded, still in her teens, unable to lead a
unable to go out ——”

“Go out?” repeated Sally, shocked.
I'd just wait.”

Roger looked at her helplessly. Then he
began again in a tone of forced reasonableness.

“Johnny,” he said, man to man, “I know
how you feel. With the draft hanging over
your head, and the world uncertain, you and a
lot of other young men want to grab at life as
fast as possible. But you can’t bank on your
feelings’ staying the same. Maybe five years
from now you'll be tired of garage work.
Maybe you'll wish you had studied for an-
other kind of job—electronics, maybe.”

“I like cars,’ said Johnny.
about them. But if l ever changed my mind’ —

“But

he clearly thought this impossible—“‘maybe I |

could study at night.”
“Johnny,” I said, feeling almost protective

: : |
toward him for a moment, since he seemed as _

innocently unarmed as Sally, “you want to
take on the responsibility for somebody else—
when you’re not quite on your own yet. Isn’ t
that a pretty big job? And think of Sally. She
wants to take on three jobs—wife, homemaker |
and wage earner—with no experience at any
one of them! Shouldn’t you both have more |
practice first? And more fun too. More free-_
dom! Remember, responsibility never stops.
It goes on day in and day out ——”

But lost in their inner vision of life as it
isn’t, they could not hear us.

And there our first family conference ended. |
Sally and Johnny had declared their wishes, if
not their intentions. We had strongly pointed |
out the dangers. But no real decision was
reached, and the issue was not really joined. |

In June I watched Sally graduate from high
school. I bitterly envied the parents of those of
Sally’s friends who were going on to college, |

CONTINUED ON PAGE 94

“I know a lot |

“If, as they say, the first year of married]

life is the hardest,’ writes our black-haired}

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for a glorious life together.”

It’s harder to keep young these days—with]
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get away in. |

Young parent: “Before I was a mother J}

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE ‘

and still illogically hoped she would somehow

join them. I thought of the frightening statis-
tics on teenage marriages, and their even more
frightening mortality rate. I prayed that Sally
would not become one of those tragic case
histories.

The following Monday Sally enrolled in a
secretarial course.

All Sally’s life she has spent her summers at
our cottage at the lake, and has always loved
it. In vain we told her that she needed some
relaxation after the strain of exams. Then we
offered her a trip to California to visit her
cousins—something she had always wanted.
Next we suggested a summer cruise.

Smilingly Sally thanked us and said we were
darlings, but she really wanted to get started
on her shorthand.

So naturally Roger and I stayed home, too,
and continued our steadily losing battle to
make our daughter see the realities.

In my own talks with Sally, | approached
the subject of marriage from every possible
angle, as reasonably as I could. “You know,
Sally,” I said, “you have a lot of attitudes that
are so much a part of you that you are not
even conscious of having them. You simply
take them for granted. But when you run head
on into a point of view quite different from the
one you’ve always considered obvious—won’t
you be in trouble?”

“What kind of attitudes?” asked Sally

“Well, for example, did you know that in
many families with the same heritage as John-
ny’s, there’s a strong tradition that the men
spend their time the
women spend theirs separately? That a young
wife is expected to stay home with her mother-
in-law and sisters-in-law, while the men in the

leisure together—and

family play cards or go in for sports?

Sally stared at me unbelievingly. “Johnny
would never do that,’ she said.

I touched on the religious differences very
gingerly. “Sally,” I pleaded, “are you quite
sure you know what is involved in joining
another church?”

fue

Sally looked thoughtful. ‘““Mother, I’ve
thought it over very carefully. Truly I have. I
love our church—and of course I’ve known
Dr. Pickett since I was just a little kid. But
does it matter where you worship—as long as
you do?”

‘Perhaps not,”’ I said. ‘“‘But the rituals and
forms with which you worship are a part of
you too. You’d be surprised how often we feel
able to do things ourselves which we don’t
always want to ask our children to do. Have
you thought about having your children in-
doctrinated in ways different from yours?”

“But mother,” said Sally, “they'd be John-
ny’s children too.”

When I found her taking a fresh cake of
soap from the linen closet, I pointed out that
there are dozens of small necessities which had
simply always been there, ready to her hand,
but which cost a surprising amount of money.

“Darling,” I said, “you have no idea how
many hidden expenses there are in a house-
hold. Not the obvious things like rent and
food—but the face tissues and cleansing pow-
ders. Things you never think of—until you
have to buy them. Life—and even love—can
be awfully crippled when you run out of
toothpaste, and can’t buy more until payday.”

But it was all too clear that Sally would
never realize the cold facts of money struggle
until she had experienced it, the hard way.

And of course I blamed myself for not hay-
ing given her more careful training in money
matters—just as I blamed myself for so many
other things, including not having prevented
her from becoming involved with Johnny in
the first place. (But could I have?)

Meantime, Sally’s eighteenth birthday was
approaching with frightening speed.

A month before her birthday she came to
me and said, ““Mother, I'd like to announce
my engagement at my birthday party. And
we'd like to be married in the late fall. I’m sure
to have a job by then. Shouldn’t we start
planning?”

I stared at her. In spite of all the evidence to
the contrary, I had not really grasped the ac-
tuality of Sally’s plans to marry Johnny.

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I’m afraid I lost my head. “Sally! This is
nonsense! Haven’t you heard what your father
and I have been saying to you for months?
We’ve given you dozens of reasons why mar-
rying Johnny now would be disastrous. Don’t
you have any faith in us? You are not equipped
for marriage. You don’t know what you’re
doing!”’ And a lot more in the same vehement
vein.

Sally flashed back at me, “If I haven’t been
listening to you, you haven’t been listening to
me either. You simply don’t respect me or my
feelings. You just brush them away as child-
ish. ’'m a woman, mother. I want to be mar-
ried. Of course I agree with you and daddy
that things would be much easier if we had
more money, and if I were used to working.
And if a lot of other things were different. But
they are not. And life is too unpredictable to
wait until things are ideal. There might be a
war. Johnny might be drafted. We have to live
while we can.” She bent and kissed me.
“Mummy, I’m sorry you’re so upset. Please
don’t be—I expect to be happy. And please—
think about the wedding.”

.
‘| hat night again I was awake until daylight.
Over and over my mind ran between two al-
ternatives. If I supported Sally in’what I was
convinced was a fatal mistake, wasn’t I abet-
ting her in the very danger of which I had been
warning her? But if I refused to sanction the
marriage, what would happen? Would I push
Sally into something rash?

By dawn I had decided that I would hold
firm, no matter how much it hurt. I would
refuse, lovingly but steadfastly, to go along
with the wedding. It was a risk we had to take.

My husband was dubious. He loved Sally
so much, in his silent way, that he couldn’t
face what a flat rejection would do to her.
But I persuaded him that any co-operation we
gave to Sally’s own wishes would simply be
equal to pushing her over the brink. Reluc-
tantly, he agreed.

I told Sally that afternoon.

“Darling, we love you very much,” I con-
cluded. “‘How can we possibly go along with

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

something we are convinced will hurt you?
We can’t. I won’t repeat all the reasons. You
already know them. We cannot approve of
this marriage at this time. For the sake of your
futures, both you and Johnny owe yourselves
at least another year.”

Sally was silent. I could not look at the hurt
in her eyes. I wanted to gather her in my arms
and rock her.

“That’s it, then, mother?” she finally man-
aged to get out.

“For now, Sally. Yes.”

“Very well, mother.” She held her head
high halfway across the room, and then
rushed through the door to hide the tears.

I felt as though I had stabbed her.

The next few weeks were among the most
painful in my memory. Beyond eating and
sleeping, our daughter vanished from out
lives. She was polite but withdrawn. Johnny
called for her, but spent no more evenings at
our house. Sally told us, as always, where she
was going. She usually came home early, and
I could often hear her furiously practicing her
typing.

Her eighteenth birthday, which should have
been such a joyous occasion, was miserable
for all of us. She passed up the party, thanked
us for our gifts, and spent the evening at |
Johnny’s house.

I wondered what she was thinking and
feeling. Was her coldness a natural and in-
evitable show of resentment which would
wear off? Underneath, was our united show of
concern and firm refusal reaching her at last?
How fervently we hoped so.

Then, as I was driving downtown on aj]
Saturday afternoon, I saw Sally and Johnny)
coming out of a real-estate office. They must
be apartment hunting. They really meant to
go ahead on their own! I felt almost faint.}
And—I must admit it—as I looked at Johnny
I viciously wished he had never been born.

I drove blindly, with desolate pictures in my}
mind’s eye. I saw Sally standing in a strange
cold place to be married—without us. I saw}
her having a wedding supper in a disma ,
hotel—maybe even a diner. I heard her voice}

ARCH, 1962

stranger’s voice, coming to us over the
lephone from an unknown town: “Mother,
m married.”

I felt both extreme peril and extreme
sIplessness. Obviously, the way we had
andled things was all wrong. But what was
1e right way ? Where could we go for advice—
yr help?

Suddenly I remembered Dr. Bayles.

As I dialed his number, I bitterly thought
ow little I had anticipated, when I served on
ie School Guidance Committee with Dr.
ayles, that I would ever consult him as a
sychiatrist about my daughter.

At eight that evening I sat in his office, pour-
g out the story. Dr. Bayles’s first words sur-
“ised me.

“T understand your feelings, Mrs. Bartholo-

w,”’ he said, ‘“‘and they are naturally painful
, you. But I must point out that the key per-
m in this situation is your daughter. What
yu and I say does not much matter. Sally’s
elings are the only relevant ones.”’

“But Dr. Bayles!’’ I was shocked. “‘As a
ychiatrist, do you mean that you see no
\nger in a girl like Sally marrying a boy like
hnny? Isn’t it contrary to all the rules
>»ve all read so often about the basis of a
und marriage? You don’t agree it’s tragic?”
“Mrs. Bartholomew, it cou/d be tragic. But
it necessarily. I agree with you that many
\the elements we consider desirable for mar-
|ge seem to be missing. Social and religious
ferences are real hazards. And lack of
yney is certainly a realistic problem. But it is
lly’s problem, and Sally’s life—not yours.”
I was silent. I had been so sure that an ex-
rt, a doctor trained in-human relationships,
fuld have my own viewpoint.

“Mrs. Bartholomew,” Dr. Bayles went on,
four reactions are exactly those of most
ents. You want a guaranty of happiness
i} your child—as we'd all like to have—and
want it on your own terms. But that’s not
psible. Very often”’—and here he grew
pughtful— “we quite unconsciously want
} children to fill needs of our own. We want
fe proud of the people our children marry.

se¢én—day or night.

We substitute our own longings for our chil-
dren’s. They are quite different.”

“No, Dr. Bayles,” I protested. ‘I’m not con-
cerned for me—but for my daughter.”
He smiled. “I said unconscious,”

minded me gently.

“But, Dr. Bayles, why should Sally want
to commit herself to an underprivileged life
with a boy like Johnny?”

“To answer that,” said Dr. Bayles, ““I would
have to know Sally—and you and her father—
far better than I do. For example—and this is
pure conjecture—you tell me that Sally is an
only child, and her father is often away on
business. Possibly one of Johnny’s attractions
is that he comes from a large, volatile, lively
family. Only children are often attracted to
clannish family life. Then; too, the fact that
Johnny does manual work may seem, in Sally’s
eyes, very strong and masculine. But I’m
merely speculating.

“However Sally sees Johnny, her needs—
or at least her current needs—point to mar-
riage to this young man. Apparently she feels
these needs very forcefully. Let me point out,
too, that Sally may be showing some strengths
as well. Even though I agree with you that she
is certainly too immature to realize all that is
involved, nevertheless she feels a certain
amount of confidence in herself. And so does
the young man.”

“But what should we do ?”

“You have already used every means pos-
sible to persuade her to wait?”

INS

“And you haven’t been able to convince
her?”

“ANG:

“Then go along with her. Stand by her.”

“You mean help her marry Johnny—just
as though we approved?”

“Mrs. Bartholomew’’—Dr. Bayles was al-
most stern—‘“‘you have no choice. Remember,
many young girls with these drives simply run
away with boys—even without marriage. But
your Sally has confided in you and trusts you.
Whether you believe this marriage is wise or
not, Sally now needs the support of her

he re-

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parents. She particularly needs her mother.
Marriage, even an unwise one, is a crucial
moment in a girl’s life. She will never forget
that you stood by her. And she will never for-
get if you don’t.

“If you want to keep your daughter, Mrs.
Bartholomew—stand by her now. Even in her
mistake, if it is one. And it may not be.”

All the way home his words rang in my
mind: “If you want to keep your daughter—
stand by her now.”

When I repeated Dr. Bayles’s advice to my
husband, he seemed curiously relieved. Now
that Sally’s marriage seemed inevitable, he
wanted to believe in it. ““Maybe we need more
faith in her,” he said.

When Sally came home I told her that we
would give her a wedding and help her start a
home—if she would let us.

Only from the way she sobbed on my shoul-
der could I measure how hurt and abandoned
she had felt.

Dia Dr. Bayles’s advice magically erase all
the problems? Of course not. They were still
there. But the awful estrangement between
Sally and her parents was ended, and now
we all felt a deeper closeness—even though my
husband and J still had many fears.

Sally finished her secretarial course with
high grades, and landed a beginner’s job in a
local bank. And then we planned the wed-
ding—small, but complete with all the tradi-
tional touches.

The ceremony was to be in Johnny’s
church—a difficult thing for me, but one I
overcame by constantly reminding myself that
Sally wanted it that way.

Then, of course, we had to meet Johnny’s
family. We invited them to dinner—and they
invited us back. I won’t pretend it wasn’t
awkward—extremely so at moments. We had
nothing in common but our children—and
that was most difficult of all. Johnny’s family,
with close traditions in the Old World,
assumed a taken-for-granted kinship, which
was certainly far warmer than my own mixed
feelings. But we managed. And the gratitude

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in Sally’s eyes helped make up for the bad
moments.

The day finally came. Sally walked down
the aisle on her father’s arm with glory in her
eyes. And as I saw Johnny waiting for her, so
young, so unproved, I prayed for them both.

As Sally left in a shower of rice, she whis-
pered to me, “Mummy, I love you and daddy
so much. And I’m so happy.”’ And again she
said, as she had before, “Please be glad.”

And she was gone.

Is there a happy ending? Not yet. But per-
haps it is a happy beginning. Johnny and Sally
have been married six months. They live ex-
tremely modestly in their small apartment.
Sally works all day, does her housework at
night, washes the laundry in the basement
washer on Saturdays. Including Johnny’s
shirts.

I wonder whether she isn’t overtired. I won-
der whether she doesn’t long for more fun
than their weekly movie—after all, she is still
a teenager. And of course I wonder how they
would support a baby.

On the other hand, now that he has a goal,
Johnny seems to be developing character to
match. He works very hard, and has managed
to open a small savings account. He helps
Sally with the household chores. But most of
all lam reassured by the look in his eyes when
he says “Sally.”

So I do have some hope. I hope Johnny will
see the need for more education in today’s
world, and will eventually go to school at
night. I hope Sally will encourage him in this,
and will keep her own mind awake and
growing.

But I realize that it is out of my hands. I
have at last paid Sally the ultimate tribute—
and the hardest one for a parent to make.
I have accepted the truth that she is Sally—
and not an extension of myself.

I have finally learned that Sally has a right
to her own life, including the precious right
to make her own mistakes.

But perhaps this marriage is not a mistake.

It may be right—for Sally. END

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SHAPING THE ’60’s
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 72

new appliance, a car or a boat. A California
girl in her twenties started out grandly with
“an airplane,” but finished disarmingly:
‘Someone to do my ironing.”

Not surprisingly, it is money—lack of it,
the large amount it takes to run a household—
that many consider the most disappointing
aspect of marriage. What is more surprising
is that nearly a third of these young women
could think of vo disappointment in marriage.
Seven out of ten would definitely marry the
same man if they had it to do over, and an-
other 25 percent probably would. (This even
though 10 percent started off married life
with an unhappy honeymoon, attributed in
most cases to “tiredness and irritability” but
also to such unexpected disasters as appendi-
citis, automobile accident, sprained ankle
and seaweed allergy !)

A WHOLE NEW WORLD OPENS UP

Virtually all these young women feel that
marriage has changed them, and most of the
changes are, in their opinion, for the better.
Three in eight marriage has made
them more mature and considerate. ““I was a
child when I married,’ admitted an Orlando,
Florida, wife. ““Marriage matured me very
quickly. It was a shock, but I lasted through
it!’ Although not many expressed their feel-
ings so ecstatically as the Texas woman who

believe

said, “It has made me realize that a state very
near complete happiness can be reached on
this earth!” a large majority
with her rather than with the 25-year-old who

would agree

said, “I’m grouchier, less self-assured and
greedier.””
Interestingly, several mentioned loss ot

naiveté as one of the mixed blessings of mar-
riage. “It has made me more realistic to life’s
ups and downs. | am beginning to understand
that people can do terrible things,” one very
young woman observed, but added with a
touch of humor, “| am also more able to say

‘no’ to salesmen.”

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“JUST

Typical was the comment of a thoughtful
woman who herself as
and **Mar-

young described

formerly carefree self-centered.

riage has opened up a whole new world of

responsibility. It has given me ambition I never
knew I possessed, made me develop abilities
I never thought I could master. Yet in a way
it’s made me humble because I would like to
do much more for my husband and children.”

SOME OLD DREAMS DIE

What disappointments our young mothers
have experienced in marriage (other than lack
of money) cover a wide range of complaints
from “‘the old routine’ (6 percent) and “too
many responsibilities” (5 percent) to in-law
trouble (3 percent) and lack of time alone
with the husband (7 percent). Only | percent
mentioned sex problems as contributing to
“great disappointment” in marriage.

Divorce is not very appealing even to dis-
appointed wives. Although nearly half (44 per-
cent) admitted that there had been a period
when they felt quite discouraged about their
marriage, only one in ten had considered the
possibility of getting a divorce, and barely
14 percent would advise a child to consider
divorce as a solution foran unhappy marriage.
Quite a large number feel more sympathetic
toward their own parents after having experi-
enced some of the problems of marriage and
motherhood.

“It was a real eye-opener for me,” confessed
a New Orleans mother. “Now I realize the
things my own mother went through with me
| was spoiled and hateful. | hope to raise my
children in such a way that it
parenthood to make them
mother.” Another reported wryly

won't take

respect their
“lve eaten
plenty of words about how I'd raise Such-
and-such’s child if it were mine.”

LIKE
MOTHER USED TO MAKE?”

Cooking is another field in which today’s
young mothers seem to feel renewed respect
for their own mothers. Although almost nine
in ten are quick to admit to being able to cook

better than their husbands expected before
marriage, only four in ten believe they can
outcook their mothers. This is a little baffling
since two in three have changed their ideas
about cooking since marriage, and seem
proud of their new knowledge. “From a back-
ground of painfully plain West Texas cook-
ing,’ reported a young wife transplanted to
Tennessee, ‘‘I have learned the delicious addi-
tion of Tabasco, pepper and garlic, and have
begun to experiment with herbs and more
complicated recipes.” . . . “We have acquired
a taste for some foods mother would never
have dreamed of trying!’ is a comment typi-
cal of the 35 percent who stress variety and
experimentation in their cooking and meal
planning.

Not far behind in numbers are the nutri-
tion-conscious wives. One in five claims to
serve more healthful, better-balanced meals:
‘I bake and broil vegetables and meats, make
more gelatin and puddings for desserts instead
of cakes and pies.”” A woman who deplores the
starchy meals her Philadelphia mother used to
serve says, “I try to give my family a more bal-
anced diet by substituting proteins, greens, less
calorie-laden foods.’ And another: ““We eat
very few fried foods any more.”

A small (5 percent) but definite number feel
that they are more economical about planning
meals. ‘“‘Mother cooked as if she had to feed
three or more people other than those present:
I prepare meals in quantity determined by
those I am to serve. I prepare only two vege-
tables, one meat and one salad for a dinner
meal, mother would have several
vegetables and a choice of meats.” A 27-
year-old from Alabama has relaxed her stan-
dards a bit: “I used to think every meal had to
have a salad, two vegetables and a meat. Now
I serve sandwiches and soup one night a week,
or even a rich soup by itself. | wouldn’t feel I
had let my family down if I gave them ham
and eggs for supper.”

whereas

SPICIER—BUT NICE

If the husbands feel let down, it is probably
not because of being served ham and eggs for

Sa FO EE Ee MBE Ne OU ER er ee te 0 8 ee

supper, but rather some more exotic, experi-
mental dish. Over six in ten young couples
have similar tastes in food—at least according
to the wives!—but of the 30 percent that dif-
fer, it is usually the husband who likes plainer
or more monotonous cooking.

A typical comment came from a North
Carolina girl who complained, ‘“‘He seems
to prefer simple food while I enjoy casseroles,
Italian food, sour cream and cottage cheese.”
The diplomatic young woman from Con-
necticut who confessed, “I serve the meal first,
and tell him what’s in it afterward,” might
have found herself stymied by the plight of a
Wisconsin wife who reported, “I like cas-
seroles; he doesn’t. I like dishes with cheese
and cream; he doesn’t. He prefers cakes and
cookies without nuts; I like nuts. He likes
wild game and I neither like it nor like prey |
paring it!” ‘

But it is not always the husband who is cau-
tious about eating unusual foods. A 22-year-
old from Albuquerque whose husband dotes
on seafood said, “He will try anything once. I
have to think about it for a while.”
DRESSING UP—AND DOWN

Although only 10 percent of our young
mothers say they cook specifically to please
their husbands, almost half pay attention to |
their husbands’ definite ideas about how much
and what sort of makeup they should use
(most frequent complaint: too much eye
shadow), and 65 percent take time in the
midst of a busy day to freshen up before the
husband comes home from the office. A
slight major ty feel that they have less time to
give to personal appearance now that they are
wives and mothers. Cur typical young mother
wears Bermudas or cotton housedresses for
housecleaning, dresses up a bit more to go to
the market, and usually adds stockings and
medium heels for a trip to “town.” She'd
rather not go out of the house in curlers, but
sometimes (through necessity) does.

“T never go downtown in anything but a
dress or blouse and skirt and generally heels in-
stead of flats,” reported a Wyoming girl, and

, ate
ae hasan

a
ya oa
we EP e ,
PS >
i. an.

é ‘
Wf : ‘ a =

chest with glass-fronted drawers for organized storage, approximately $209 (higher in the West).

ee ee en eee

AARCH, 1962

nen admitted, “In cases of emergency I have
one in slacks, but don’t care to if avoidable.”
| The average young woman feels also that
[It depends . . .” (on the store where she plans
‘bd shop, on her mood, how much time she has
') dress, or “how good I look in my long
| fants”). The fine line between clothes for
Jeaning house and clothes for shopping was
musingly drawn by a Philadelphian: “For
jousework: old slacks, old blouse, torn stock-
ngs, old shoes. For shopping: not-so-old
acks, not-so-old blouse, untorn stockings,
noes in good condition.” Few indeed are the
homen who would be able to say with a blithe
bung mother from Wisconsin, “My husband

another: “My child comes first. I never
thought I’d put anyone before me, but if we
both need shoes my daughter gets hers first.”
A young mother who reported that some
of the excitement of marriage had disappeared
with the arrival of the first child added, ““My
husband and I no longer have a happy-go-
lucky feeling toward life, but a feeling of re-
sponsibility.”

Some mothers even want to change the
world for their children. Although almost
nine out of ten believe that a child born today
has more opportunity to get ahead than a
child born in their own generation, they are by
no means blind to the continuing need for

reform. “Since I had a baby, I’m more inter-
ested in politics and world affairs and more
concerned about the future than I was before,”
said a 24-year-old from Minnesota. A young
Southern mother said she wanted to try “to
change certain existing conditions in local so-
cial groups and in the U.S. as a whole, to
make the world a better place for my child.”
Another commented simply, “I try harder to
do something about life in little ways.”

Is parenthood a// responsibility, or are there
pleasures too? ““My children have made me
aware of the preciousness of life itself,’ said
one mother. Another: “I watch a child grow
and his antics in sheer satisfaction.”’ And, from

juys the groceries. If I should be with him, I
in a dress and heels, along with casual
jwelry.”

TOUCH OF VENUS

\No matter how casual their sneakers and
iwelry, most of the women in our survey feel
appier wearing perfume, and 65 percent use
a daily or several times a week. Typical
pmments: “A small amount does wonders,
jra woman.” ... “It makes me feel confident,
kpensive.” .. . “If I am happy, it keeps me
lat way; if I am sad, it peps me up.” .. . “I
je it sparingly when I buy it, lavishly when
Ss a gift. It makes me feel pampered, sexy.”

|More than half say their husbands are inter-
‘ted in the perfume they wear, and over a
ird use it before going to bed at night. “‘It
lakes a housewife feel like a woman” was the
i'mment of a 27-year-old from Brooklyn,
nile a Pennsylvania wife said that when wear-
z perfume “sometimes I feel Zsa Zsa Gabor- |
a and at other times I feel positively Eva
WBarie Saintlike.” Striking a wistful note, a

bcks so often, perfume is about the only
\ng that makes me feel like a girl.”
‘Though many (27 percent) said they used
fume because they liked the scent, and an
ost equal number (26 percent) because it
de them feel “‘more dressed” or “‘more at-
ctive,”’ a few had highly original reasons.
he found perfume effective for covering up
dking odors and “smoking odors from my
sband,” and another claimed to enjoy |
misework more while wearing scent. Al-|
bugh there were some reservations (““Cheap
fume gives me a headache!” .. . “It should
used discreetly; I hate to be around a
an who smells like the five-and-ten
inter’), far more women would echo the
ifornia woman who declared, “I consider |
ume a necessity!” than would agree with |
Midwestern dissenter who admitted, “I |
Ar it only because it’s expected of women.”
discussing perfume, the women in our |
ey consistently used descriptive words
“daring,” ‘alluring,’ “glamorous’— |
haps unconsciously revealing a desire for |
ance and gaiety, voiced openly by an Ala-
a girl who said, “‘Perfume makes me feel
tier . . . reminds me of former days when
ad jess responsibility and could take time
trivia.”
Do our young mothers feel that life has be-
e€ too real, too earnest? That they take
r responsibilities seriously is apparent in |
thoughtful way they talk about themselves
their families. Over two thirds feel more |
erned about leading a good life now that |
have children.
Motherhood has given a deeper meaning |
fe and has made me want to set a good |
ple for my children,” said one. And |

PLEASE USE
YOUR POSTAL ZONE
NUMBER

To improve service and speed delivery
of mail, the Post Office ass that you
always include your postal zone
number in your address.

We want to co-operate in every way
we can—but we need your help.
By giving us your zone number, you'll
be assuring speedy delivery of your
magazines.
| Help yourself to better service.
#Use your Postal Zone Number—always!

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INDEPENDENCE SQUARE
PHILADELPHIA 5, PA.

l-year-old observed, “As long as I wear] §

She'll feel as if she lives in a

rose garden!

Virginia, a mother who had looked forward to
making her children laugh “and showing
them the fun of living’? added, “But really,

they have taught me to love life more fully.”
Overwhelmingly, young American mothers
consider motherhood a “rewarding experi-
ence”’ that “gives deeper meaning to life.” Asa
27-year-old New Yorker expresses it: “I look
forward to my daughter’s growing up and be-
coming a lovely young woman who will be
kind and thoughtful of others and be able to
stand on her own two feet. I used to want to
give her every luxury. Now I know the best

thing I can give her is a good set of values.”
END

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POTATOES

Can any ee be as good as pota-
toes? A hot baked potato with a
bie piece of butter melting into its
snowy interior is so right with steak
or roast beef. An aristocratic po-
tato-Gruyere soufflé (below left)
adds elegance to a simple liver-and-
bacon supper. Not to be underesti-
mated: potato cakes and hashed
brown potatoes. The two best ways
we've ever eaten sweet potatoes
(try them with chicken, ham or
pork) : tangy Ginger-Glazed Sweet
Potatoes and Apricot Sweet-Po-
tato Puff.

<—POTATO SOUFFLE GRUYERE

3 cups riced 2 teaspoons
baked potatoes— minced chives
about 5; don’t 1 teaspoon salt
pack into the 1g teaspoon
measure pepper

14 cup soft butter Pinch of rubbed

2 ounces processed Savory
Gruyére cheese, 3 eggs, separated
grated fine 1 cup heavy

cream, whipped

Mix cooled potato, butter, cheese,
chives and seasonings. Fold beaten egg
yolks into cream; then fold into pota-
toes. Beat egg whites until soft peaks
form; gently fold into potato. Spoon into
a 6-cup soufflé dish. Bake in a moderate
oven, 350° F., for about 1 hour or until
lightly browned on top and set inside.
Serve at once. Makes 5-6 servings.

HASHED BROWN POTATOES
WITH ALMONDS

3 medium 2 tablespoons
potatoes, washed chopped toasted
3 tablespoons almonds
butter 1 tablespoon
Salt and pepper chopped parsley

Boil potatoes with skins on until done,
about 25 minutes; drain and let cool
slightly. Peel while warm and finely
chop them. You should have about 2
cups. Heat butter in an 8” skillet and
add potatoes. Press them down evenly
in bottom of pan and cook over me-
dium heat until golden crust forms
on the bottom. Season. Just before
serving, sprinkle chopped almonds and
parsley over the surface, fold like an
omelet and turn out on serving platter.
Makes about 4 servings.

GINGER-GLAZED
SWEET POTATOES

2 pounds sweet 2 tablespoons
potatoes or slivered crystal-
yams, cooked lized ginger

14 cup firmly 11% tablespoons
packed brown margarine
sugar 14 cup pineapple

6 cup white sugar juice

Peel cooked sweet potatoes or yams
and, if large, slice them in half length-
wise. Put remaining ingredients in a
large skillet. Bring to a boil, stirring
until sugar has dissolved, then lower
heat and add potatoes; poach over low
heat, basting frequently until glazed,
about 15 minutes. Makes 4-6 servings.

CONTINUED ON PAGE 100

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POTATOES

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 98

POTATO CAKES

1 quart unseasoned 14 teaspoon
mashed potatoes pepper
(About 6 medium) l4 teaspoon

6 tablespoons milk nutmeg

14 cup minced onion 1 egg yolk

2 tablespoons butter or Flour
margarine Shortening or

2 teaspoons salt cooking oil

Beat potatoes and milk together until very
smooth. Sauté onion in butter or margarine
until pale gold. Stir into the potatoes with salt,
pepper, nutmeg and egg yolk. Spread out in a
shallow pan. Cover lightly. Chill in refrigerator
12 hours, or until cold and firm. Cut into
squares or diamonds or shape into small cakes.
Dust lightly with flour. Sauté in just enough
heated shortening or oil to prevent sticking
until brown on both sides. Makes about 24
cakes or 6 servings.

APRICOT
SWEET-POTATO PUFF

1 can (1-lb.-1-0z.) 14 cup sugar
peeled whole 14 teaspoon salt
apricots '4 teaspoon

1 cup hot freshly grated lemon
mashed sweet rind
potato 4 eggs

Drain apricots, reserving | tablespoon of the
syrup. Remove pits, add the 1 tablespoon apri-
cot syrup and press fruit through a sieve or
buzz in a blender. Add to mashed sweet po-
tato with sugar, salt and lemon rind. Beat until
smooth. Separate eggs and beat yolks until
thick and lemon-colored. Fold into potato.
Beat whites until soft peaks form and also
fold into the potato mixture. Turn into 6-cup
soufflé dish or casserole and bake in a moder-
ate oven, 350° F., for about 45 minutes. Serve
immediately. Makes 4—6 servings.

SPICY INSTANT-POTATO PUFF

1 envelope (3!4-oz.) instant mashed potatoes
2 tablespoons instant onion-soup mix

V4 cup commercial sour cream

1 can (4%-0z.) deviled ham

Prepare potatoes according to package di-
rections, except decrease the water 14 cup and
add the onion-soup mix to the heating liquid.
Fold in the potatoes along with the sour cream
and turn into a buttered 4-cup casserole.
Spread the deviled ham on top and heat under
the broiler for about 5 minutes. A good lunch-
eon dish. Serve with a tossed, crisp green
salad. Makes 4 servings.

=
MY FAVORITE DISH ... FISH

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 85

the crust will be crisp, feathery and golden.
Remove to a pan lined with paper toweling and
keep in a warm oven until all the fish is ready.
Mix | tablespoon cornstarch with 14 cup water,
add to heating pineapple and cook until syrup
has thickened. Arrange the pineapple in sauce
on a warm serving platter. Place the fish pieces
carefully on top. Makes 6 servings.

BRAISED STUFFED CUCUMBER

2 long, thin 1 tablespoon red wine
cucumbers vinegar

14 cup ground pork 1 tablespoon soy

14 cup dry bread sauce
crumbs | teaspoon salt

1¢ teaspoon slivered, 14 teaspoon sugar
peeled, fresh ginger 14 teaspoon mono-
root, or 4 teaspoon _— sodium glutamate
powdered ginger 1—2 tablespoons
cooking oil
Wash, peel and trim the cucumbers. Cut cross-
wise into slices about 114” thick. Hollow out
the seeds. Mix pork with bread crumbs and
seasonings. Pack into the cucumbers. Heat the
cooking oil in a skillet. Stand stuffed cucum-
bers in oil and cook gently until tinged with
brown, then turn and brown other end. Add
14 cup water. Cover, turn heat to low and con-
tinue cooking for 8-10 minutes longer. Cu-
cumbers should be tender, but not soft, and
pork done through. Makes 6 servings.

LAVICS MUNE JUURWNATL

SPINACH-AND-BEAN-SPROUT SALAD

1 pound young fresh 1 teaspoon soy sauce

spinach 's teaspoon sugar
14 cup bean sprouts 1% teaspoon salt
le cup olive oil Dash of pepper

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

Wash spinach very well. Remove stems an
heavy veins from larger leaves. Set aside in :
vegetable crisper until needed. Rinse the bea
sprouts in cold water, then cover with coli
water and keep in the refrigerator until read
to use. Drain well. Mix the oil, vinegar ani
seasonings. Break spinach into bite-size piece
and place in a salad bowl with the bea
sprouts. Pour the dressing over and tos:
Makes 6 servings. Note: This dressing ma
be heated before pouring over the greens, a
in making wilted lettuce. d

COLD COFFEE SOUFFLE. #

11% envelopes 2 tablespoons instan
unflavored gelatin coffee (espresso or

114 cups water half-and-half if

1 cup milk you prefer)

34 cup sugar 3 eggs

14 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon vanilla

Mix the gelatin with the water, milk, suga
salt and instant coffee. Place in double boil

and heat until mixture is scalded and gelati)

dissolved. Add 3 slightly beaten egg yolks an
cook until mixture coats a spoon. Remoy\
from heat, add vanilla and chill until syrup
Fold in the 3 egg whites, stiffly beaten, Pot
into individual sherbet glasses or a servit
bowl and chill until firm. Garnish with choc
late curls made by scraping unsweetened cho)
olate squares with a vegetable peeler. Mak
6 servings.

In either of the menus you can substitute t!
next recipe: South Sea Fish in Foil, fragra
with ginger root. ... Lomi Lomi Salmon is
definite adventure into the unknown textur
and flavors of the fish world.

SOUTH SEA FISH IN FOIL

6 (44-34-lb.) trout 2 teaspoons soy sau
or any whitefish Juice of 1 lemon
fillets, fresh or ‘4 teaspoon ground
frozen ginger

6 tablespoons melted 1% pound fresh spin
butter ach leaves, washe:

Clean and wash fresh fish. If using frozen fis
thaw according to package directions. Stir t)
melted butter, soy sauce and lemon juice t
gether and brush on the fish, inside and ov
Sprinkle the inside of each fish generously w’
the ginger and then lightly on top. Wrap ea
fish in foil this way: Place a few spinach leay)
on a square of aluminum foil, lay a season
serving of fish on spinach and place a fi
leaves on top. Wrap in the foil, turning t!
ends in and folding it securely. Place on sh
low baking sheet. Bake in a moderate ovi)
350° F., for 30 to 40 minutes. Bring to i
table in the foil; or if you like, wrap seve)
pieces of spinach-covered fish in one la!
piece of foil, and remove from foil to wa
serving platter. Makes 6 servings.
LOMI LOMI SALMON
(Shredded Salmon)

°4 pound fresh or 4 ripe tomatoes
frozen salmon (about 115 poun)
114 tablespoons salt 4 medium scallions:
3 tablespoons lemon juice
Wash the salmon, pat dry and rub with”
salt. Sprinkle lemon juice on both sides. Co
and place in refrigerator for 12-24 h
Turn once. The lemon juice will “‘cook’
salmon. If you can get sa/t salmon, soak it.
12-24 hours and then proceed. Remove bo
and skin from the fish and cut it into 144”-
pieces, or pull it apart with your fingers. Int
way you will be sure to feel any small bo
and have irregular small pieces. Peel and cl
the tomatoes and add to the salmon. We
trim and slice scallions very thin, using
much of the stem as is tender. Add m
lemon juice and salt to taste. Cover and pl
in refrigerator again for several hours. Se
very cold on lettuce or watercress, or stuff
matoes with the mixture as a first course
luncheon or supper. On the islands L
Salmon is often served with cracked ice ad
at the last minute. Serves 6. I

MARCH, 1962

CAN THIS MARRIAGE
BE SAVED?

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 42

I drove away. Ann stayed behind, went into
the restaurant. There she attempted to stir up
trouble between Irene and Bernard, a couple
whose relationship nobody can fathom, by
announcing to him that I was in love with his
wife and his wife was in love with me. The
statement was not only untrue, it was dis-
_ loyal, it was dumb. Ann risked the future of
my store, took a chance on the livelihood of
| herself and our little girl. Fortunately Bernard
i is Bernard; his vanity was unshaken and he
i brushed off the scene as another example of
feminine foolishness and jealousy.
/ “Talmost wish I had some of his arrogance,
| his indifference to women’s ideas. From morn-
‘ing until night Ann accuses me of meeting
‘Irene on the sly—untrue!—and then she
‘ threatens to file suit for a divorce I don’t want
| and that she doesn’t want. She is at me all the
j time with questions as to the exact status of
| my present feelings for Irene, my past feelings,
/my possible future feelings. Often my parents
are also on hand with their list of questions.
| “Even if I could provide Ann with truthful
answers, which I can’t—how do I know why
‘Irene appealed to me in the first place?—I
ysimply won't attempt to explain to anybody
i. the ins and outs of long-gone feelings, the
details Ann is clamoring to hear.
“What good would it do Ann if I tried to
/ figure out and put in words that kind of stuff?
‘She would be bound to be hurt rather than
Vhelped. Years ago it didn’t help me to hear
)how she was smitten by a stupid ski instructor.
) Perhaps I begged for every detail just as Ann
is doing now, but later on I regretted it. I
}wasn’t helped. I was hurt.
|, “Forgive and forget is my prescription for
Ann and me—the sooner the better. If she will
zuarantee to shut up my parents, and will quit
pestering me herself, Ill make any concession
she wishes. I want back the trust she once had
/n me. It would be wonderful if she would
igree to adopt a second child, but if she thinks
| don’t deserve an average-sized family, I will
sable the idea.
“Now as to Irene. Because of my business
ronnections with Bernard it will be awkward,
ut I suppose I can manage to freeze his wife
‘Mn the future. Irene won’t mind. I will feel like
Stuffed shirt and a weak fool, but if Ann in-

HE MARRIAGE COUNSELOR SAYS:

“Almost always in a foundering marriage,
ere is self-deception on both sides. Both Ann
nd Gil were self-deceived.

“At the age of thirty-one Gil, who had been
ylternately overprotected and cut down to
) Jize by his indulgent parents, had a very child-
sh approach to life. Ann was equally child-
ph, as was shown by her cfaving for the good
wvillsand approval of her in-laws in deeply

“ersonal matters. Although Ann regarded

verself as a completely honest person, she

‘idn’t understand the complex nature of

ruth and was less honest than she thought.

) “When she confided in Gil her random day-
yreams, the idle fantasies woven around a
" andsome ski instructor who meant nothing
1 her in actuality, she virtuously assumed she

|/as inspired by « desire to be honest. Her ac-

‘Yon was juvenile and naive. Her confession of
WW self-styled ‘sin,’ absurd on the face of it (she
f° admired the handsome instructor only
‘om a distance) failed to take into account the
spakiness of Gil’s personality, the slenderness

a
YEAR HUNT
q JNTINUED FROM PAGE 63

® Jubal slapped her shoulder affectionately.
i) You'll never need tending, Ma, but I'd like
"Mighty well to live on here. Only you've got
) treat Annabelle like a daughter.”
/)“T never had a daughter,” Ma reminded
*)m, adding under her breath but I’d surely
ake cat’s meat of her if I had, for no female,
i hoever she be, can come up to a man for
irength and boldness in the wilderness. So

101

of his confidence. On a conscious level, Ann
did not calculate on Gil’s almost inevitable
reaction to her glowing account of the attrac-
tions of another man, nor did she understand
her own hidden motive.

“Her cruelty was unintentional. Neverthe-
less, in describing to Gil an imaginary, straw-
man rival, it is my belief that she was subcon-
sciously disclosing hostility, her lack of faith
in him as a husband and breadwinner. In ef-
fect, her confession was a subtle method of
saying, ‘Why don’t you work harder and earn
more money, as your own parents advise? You
aren’t the only fish in the pond.’ Years later
when Ann and I analyzed the incident, she
perceived the likelihood that her unwise ac-
tion had been prompted by this unkind mo-
tive.

“Certainly it was the message Gil received.
Someday, his subconscious mind promised,
his turn would come.

“When at last he prospered in business, Gil
was too immature to let bygones be bygones.
His subconscious outrage and anger at Ann,
initiated by her confession, had been added to
through the years, day by day, until within
himself he had built a vast storehouse of un-
forgotten slights and hurts.

“With prosperity he seized the long-awaited
chance to pay Ann off. He paid off his parents
too. They were horrified by the news of his
infidelity, incredulous. Gil even paid off the
condescending Bernard.

“It was no accident that gossip of meetings
between Gil and Irene quickly spread. It
wasn’t carelessness that led him to lunch with
her in a restaurant favored by friends. Gil
himself was wholly unaware that he wanted
Ann and his parents to hear of his activities
and to be hurt as he had been hurt.

“Ann’s progress toward self-honesty as-
sisted Gil in acquiring honesty about himself.
He was jolted into recognizing the vengeful
streak in his personality, but he accepted the
knowledge, and determined in the future he
would resist the pull of innate meanness. All
along he had realized the shallowness of his
feeling for Irene. Without difficulty he decided
to stop taking advantage of casual friendly
meetings, and he stuck to the decision. For her
part, Ann granted the complexity and the
danger of all-out confession and stopped
clamoring for the impossible—a detailed re-
cital of how Gil had felt toward Irene, why he
had felt that way, and so on.

“With deliberate effort, she reduced her
emotional and social dependence on Gil’s
mother and father. Tactfully she and Gil indi-
cated to their elders that they were adult and
must lead adult lives, that they needed more
time to themselves. These days they hold their
own parties, select their own friends. Ann now
turns to Gil and asks for his advice. She chat-
ters less with her mother-in-law on the tele-
phone. Above all, she keeps private affairs
private.

“In an ideal world, perhaps Gil could have
cut all ties with Bernard and Irene. In his par-
ticular business, the move seemed too drastic,
unrealistic. Bernard remains a good customer
at the store, now so flourishing that the major
portion of Gil’s debt to his parents has been
settled. Occasionally and unavoidably Gil
sees Irene, nods politely, exchanges a few
words and passes on.

“It has been some time since I talked pro-
fessionally to Ann and Gil, but we keep in
touch. A year ago they adopted a second lit-
tle girl. At the moment they are again on the
agency list, anxiously awaiting a son.”

Editors’ Note: This case history was compiled and con-
densed from actual records by
DOROTHY CAMERON DISNEY

Jubal went to bring up the girl, and came
carrying her bag and walking behind her as if
he were a servant, instead of striding ahead
like a proper man who aims to be master.
Annabelle would have kissed Ma’s ravaged
old face if she’d been permitted. She said, in
her soft voice, that she loved everything about
the place and had always wanted to live
where there was a “lovely view,” whatever
that was. She did turn out to havea deft hand
with the frypan, and her way of roasting veni-
son was something notable, but she had silly

MACARONI 'N’ TUNA
SEASIDE SKILLET

Savory, new dish that’s
quick and easy to make

Here’s a tasty meal you can fix right on top of your
stove—FRANCO-AMERICAN Macaroni with Cheese Sauce—
combined with onions, peas, and tuna. It’s high in
flavor, but low in cost.

VY, cup chopped onion

Y4 teaspoon dry mustard

Y4 teaspoon paprika

2 tablespoons butter or margarine

2 cans Franco-American Macaroni AMERICAN

1 can (7 ounces) tuna, —_ | J
=

drained and flaked a ‘

1 cup cooked peas Macaroni

In skillet, cook onion, mustard, With cheese sauce

and paprika in butter until onion >

is tender. Add macaroni, tuna,

and peas. Heat, stirring now and
then. 4 to 6 servings. '

FRANCO-AMERICAN
MACARONI wtsxs wae

FRANCO-AMERICAN IS A TRADEMARK OF Campbell sour COMPAN

ITS FUN TO HAM IT UP

UNDERWOOD DEVILED HAM MAKES EVERY SANDWICH
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UNDER (woo?
LED) HA

ieee
Enjoy another fine Underwood product — LIVER PATE
FOR RECIPES, WRITE: ANNE UNDERWOOD, DEPT.L32, RED DEVIL LANE, WATERTOWN 72, MASS.

102

notions about wanting a cloth on the table at
mealtimes, and you’d think a nice clean gunny
sack wasn’t a fit towel for anybody, the way she
touched it. Yes, she was sweet-mannered, and
capable in a way, but she was butter-soft, and
cowardy about snakes, and she screamed for
all to hear when a covey of quail broke out
near her in the cow pasture. The worst of it
was that Jubal liked this silliness. Look at him
now, Ma thought, as he worked and whistled
about the yard. Annabelle had seen that if
he’d set pipes into a spring up above them on
the hill, they could have fresh water running
right into the kitchen; and worse than that,
she’d persuaded Jubal that he thought of it
himself. So here he was, one of the finest men
God ever made, so bemused and love-sodden
that he’d already laid the pipe and was filling
in the old well, happy as a summer morning.
So Ma laid her plans that very night.

If there was one thing the Brickers loved, it
was a good old noisy bear hunt, whooping
and hollering about the hills and never mind
if they got a bear or not, just so they had the
fun. So Ma went, when she wasn’t seen, and
dragged a.smoked ham all about the yard.
There’s nothing a bear likes better than
smoked ham, especially in early spring, when
he’s winter-thin. And sure enough, just before
dawn, the dogs almost went crazy.

Next morning Ma called Jubal’s mind to the
huge tracks. It was a measure of his besotted-
ness that he hadn’t even seen them himself.
“What do you aim to do?” she demanded.

He grinned like a boy. “We'll just have to
hunt him down. He’ll have the smokehouse
knocked apart, next time he comes. You go
holler at the others, while I throw some old
boards over the well, lest the dogs fall in.
There’s something in there they want, seems
like.”

It was only the ham Ma had discarded, and
no need to mention such trifles. The others
came arunning, booted and carrying guns, the
men grinning through their black beards, the
women gabbling and eager, ready for the fun;
and here was Annabelle, in her flimsy dress
and thin little shoes, trying to beg off, say-
ing she couldn’t shoot a gun, and she'd
bide in the cabin and have food ready. Ma
just set her jaw, and pointed up the trail, and
even Jubal said she’d best come along, so
along she came, as they crowded up toward
the hills, with the dogs racing ahead, half
crazy with knowing what lay before them.

There’s nothing shows up a soft woman
like a bear hunt. Ma knew her hills and she
knew this big old bear’s ways pretty well, so
she organized them, and sent them off to make
a great circle around the near hillside, where
old Master Bear liked to lie low in a stand of
cedars. She chose her own place up on a rock,
where she could watch on all sides, and bade
Annabelle stay near her, while Jubal ranged
the far side of the circle. Then, when he was
well gone, Ma set Annabelle right down on the
trail, well knowing there’d be a deer or two
coming that way to escape, and hoping she’d
give way and run back to the cabin, and show
herself for what she was.

Die didn’t really mean any harm to Anna-
belle, but only to have Jubal know what kind
of weak goods he’d chosen to tie to. So she
kept watch all over the hillside, and sure
enough, here came a deer bounding along,
and Annabelle’s skirt fluttered and she was
gone. She was probably locking herself into
the cabin, whimpering, so that was settled,
and Ma turned back to enjoy herself.

It was a grand day, to be sure, the hollering
and barking and uproar up one way and
down the other and still no sign of the bear,
and well past noon one of the boys—it was
Abel—came crashing in to find Ma. “He’s
got out of the circle someway. We think he
made for Meadow Lake. We'll get him there.”

“Go along the top of that ridge,” Ma
ordered swiftly. “I'll come up the draw be-
yond. Tell Jubal to hurry up above the lake,
and the others to keep close. We’ve got to get
him this time, or we’ll never have any peace.”

A far, faint cry came up-trail. It was Anna-
belle, screaming from the cabin. ‘‘What’s
that?’ Abel asked, cupping his ear. Abel was
the dull one. He never knew a thing until he
was told, but this time he remembered Anna-
belle. ‘“‘Where’s the girl?”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

“Off after Jubal,”
Time’s awasting.”

They plunged off into the higher hills. and
she knew with a fierce joy that her sons would
never let up, nor think of food, nor tire in |
their great muscles until dusk came down and
drove them home. So they circled the little
mountain lake, and started a hundred deer,
more or less, and caught sight of a cougar and
heard the bobcats screaming, but no bear this.
time. Finally they all came panting in, at the
lower end of the lake, and Jubal took one
look and demanded, “Where’s Annabelle?” ¥

“Wasn't she with you?” Ma asked inno- }/
cently. Jubal gave her a look, and began to
run. The others straggled down the hill after
him, and Ma, somewhat winded by this time,
hastened as fast as she could. ~

She could see the cabin from a bend in the
trail, and no signs of smoke from the chim-
ney, and probably nothing cooking. Maybe
the girl had given up her wish to live with the
Brickers, and had taken herself off down to the
valley again. So Ma followed, smiling.

Then she heard the shouting and gunshots,

Ma lied. “Get along.

down the hill and into the ya 4. They were#
clustered about the old well, all talking at},
once, and Annabelle supported by Jubal’s]
arm, and there, lying dead all along the}
ground, was the biggest bear Ma had ever].
seen.

ae all yelled at once, telling her the story
“Shut up,” she roared. Silence crashed down
Ma said, ‘‘Jubal, what’s the straight of this?”

Jubal said, ““Annabelle came back, thinking
she wasn’t much use, and had best get somep,
food cooking, and behind her came the bear },
following the only way he could get out of ou},
circle. He smelled whatever it is in the well},

and let him down. Annabelle couldn’t make ..
us hear, so she’s been half the day knocking},
him back down whenever he clawed his wayyy.

frightened ——”

His voice broke, and he wiped his eyes un};
ashamed, and put both arms about the girl}
Ma stood there, considering. The girl hac
been there for hours, pitting her frail strengtl
against the furious animal, and she’d neithe
given up nor lost the fight. Ma was looking a
Annabelle, but in her mind she was lookin;
her own self in the face and not liking whal
she saw. She said slowly, “I heard you acall
ing, girl. Anybody else, and I’d come arun
ning, but I wanted Jubal to throw you off, so
let you be, hoping you’d give up and g|
off an’ hide yoreself.”

She saw Jubal, rage-white, but she had t
finish. “I should ha’ known a real lady
woman when I seen one, but I’m getting ol¢
Now I say humbly, Jubal, my son, you tak
the home place and be master here, and I’
make me a hut over beyond somewhere an
never show my face again.”

Dismay showed in every face. This brea
down of the strongest among them was frigh
ening, but none dared speak. Only Annabel
freed herself from Jubal’s arms and came 1
face them all.

“Your mother has just done the brave
thing I ever knew,” she said softly b
clearly. “All who stand here will nevs
speak of this thing again, nor you eithe
Jubal’s mother.” She moved a little. ar
looked up into Ma’s ravaged face. “Shall v
make a family of it, you and I and Juba
What do you say?” ;

Here was power stronger than her own.
wanted to baw! like a calf, but there we
things to be done. “You all, standing idle—g
to work, all of you. Rustle up a fire and son
food. This little lady needs tending. And put
cloth on the table, do you hear?” she bellow
at the frightened wives. ““We’re going to
civilized around here, or I'll break a few heac
Scatter, now.”

They scattered. Ma reached down aj
gathered up Annabelle in her arms. She tc
Jubal, “This here’s my daughter now. Y
treat her tender or you'll rue the day you fi
saw the light. Here, carry her in.

Jubal carried her in. over the threshold, ir
the cabin, and Ma followed, watching at
iously lest he bruise her darling against 1}
roughness of the door. EIf‘

MARCH, 1962

SIX SUPERB WAYS
WITH CHICKEN

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 89

Sift together dry ingredients. Cut in shortening
0 mixture looks like coarse meal. Make a well
n the center and stir in milk all at once. Stir
vith a fork until a soft dough is formed, about
8 strokes. Turn out onto a well-floured board.
)WVith floured hands, pat dough out 1%” thick.
fut with 2” biscuit cutter. Bake on an un-
‘reased baking sheet until golden, in a very
fiot oven, 450° F. 12-14 minutes. Makes 12
piscuits or 6 larger 3” biscuits.
For variation, add parsley and herbs to
ry ingredients.
|
| TARRAGON-BAKED CHICKEN

Wry this for a touch of adventure ! Its gravy, un-
hickened, is pungent with the flavor of herbs
nd vinegar.

1 3): 9-lb.) frying

} chickens, cut up
Ki 4 cup melted butter
| or margarine
teaspoons salt
teaspoon tarragon

4 teaspoon garlic

Te owder

V4 teaspoon pepper
2 tablespoons
chopped parsley
1% cup cider vinegar
2 tablespoons
tarragon vinegar
14 cup chicken broth

Wash the chicken parts and pat them dry.
trange skin side up in roasting pan. Brush
“ith butter. Mix seasonings. Sprinkle over the

Micken parts, adding parsley. Cover and bake

lh a moderate oven, 350° F., for 14 hour.

Mf ncover, add vinegars, and contine baking in

Mf very hot oven, 400° F., until chicken is
biden brown and tender. Baste often. When

“Mhicken is done, arrange on platter and keep

in 2 rm. Drain off any extra fat but leave pan-

frowned juice. Stir in broth, heat until bub-

‘Wing. Pour over chicken. Makes 6 servings.

and look for low-calorie foods and beverages that say Car)

COUNTRY CHICKEN
BAKED IN MILK

Don’t forget to serve this succulent casserole
with soft-crumb biscuits.

1 (3-314-lb.) frying 1% teaspoon paprika
chicken, cut up 114 teaspoons salt
14 cup flour lg teaspoon pepper
14 teaspoon dry 14 cup melted butter
mustard or margarine

11% cups milk

Wash chicken and pat dry. Mix flour and
seasonings. Roll chicken in mixture and shake
off excess flour. Melt the butter in a large
skillet. Fry the chicken slowly until golden on
all sides. Then transfer it to a shallow baking
pan or dish. Add milk to the skillet. Heat and
stir until all brown bits in pan are loosened.
Pour over chicken. Bake, uncovered, ina mod-
erate oven, 350° F., until tender, about 45
minutes. Makes 4 servings.

SOFT-CRUMB BISCUITS

2 cups sifted flour 5 tablespoons
1 tablespoon baking shortening
powder 26-34 cup milk
1 teaspoon salt 3 tablespoons finely
chopped parsley
(optional)

Sift dry ingredients into a bowl. Cut in shorten-
ing until mixture looks like coarse meal. Make
a well and add milk all at once. Stir with a
fork until a soft dough is formed, about 18
strokes. You might need a little more milk.
Dough should be soft and light, but not sticky.
Turn out onto lightly floured board; knead
lightly about 20 times until smooth. Roll
lightly 34” thick. Cut out with a 2” biscuit cut-
ter, or roll into an oblong and cut into dia-
monds by making diagonal cuts with a long,
thin knife. Bake for 12-15 minutes ina very hot
oven, 450° F., until golden. For variation add
finely chopped parsley with the milk. Makes
12-14 biscuits.

on the label.

CHICKEN IN ORANGE SAUCE
WITH MUSHROOMS

Orange dominates the deep glaze on this
chicken. Have buttered green beans, split
toasted biscuits.

2 (2-lb.) broiling
chickens, quartered
2 teaspoons salt
lg teaspoon pepper
16 cup butter
or margarine
14 pound mushrooms

l4 cup finely
chopped onion
2 cups orange juice
1 tablespoon sugar
14 cup beef
consommé

Wash chicken and pat dry. Sprinkle with salt
and pepper. Brown in butter in a large skillet.
Remove chicken to paper toweling. Wipe,
trim and quarter mushrooms. Add to skillet
and cook until golden. Remove and _ set
aside for use later. Stir onion into remaining
drippings in skillet and cook a few minutes.
Add orange juice and sugar and cook over
high heat until mixture is reduced by half.
Lower heat and stir in consommeé. Arrange
browned chicken in sauce. Cover and cook
over very low heat until tender, about | hour.
Add mushrooms during last 10 minutes of
cooking. Makes 4 servings.

HOT PEPPER CHICKEN

Broilers get new accents of taste and color
from garlic, chili pecquins, paprika.

2 (2-lb.) broiling
chickens, quartered
| teaspoon salt
'6 cup butter
or margarine

2 cloves garlic,
peeled and crushed

6-8 chili pecquins,
crushed

1 teaspoon paprika

Prepare broilers for cooking; sprinkle with
salt and place on broiling pan, skin side down.
Melt butter with garlic, chili pecquins and
paprika. Brush chickens generously with mix-
ture. Place pan 6” from heat and broil chicken
about 15 minutes until golden, basting often
with the butter. Turn chickens over and con-
tinue basting and broiling until golden also.

103

Lower heat to moderately slow, 325° F., bake
until tender, about 20 minutes. Baste oc-
casionally with drippings, to keep moist.
Makes 4 servings.

MOROCCAN CHICKEN

1 (3-314 Ib.) frying 14 teaspoon powdered

chicken, cut up turmeric
16 cup flour 14 teaspoon rubbed
1 teaspoon salt thyme
lg teaspoon pepper 1 egg, slightly beaten
'6 teaspoon paprika Shortening

Wash and dry chicken. In a paper bag mix
flour and all seasonings. Shake chicken in sea-
soned flour. Dip into egg and then into sea-
soned flour again. Heat enough shortening to
cover the bottom of a large skillet. Fry the
chicken until crisp and golden all over, turning
the pieces often. Drain each piece on paper
toweling. Serve with saffron rice pilaf; garn-
ish the platter with clusters of white grapes.
Makes 4 servings.

SAFFRON RICE PILAF

34 teaspoon saffron

1 can (1334-0z.)
chicken broth

3 tablespoons butter
or margarine

1 cup long-grain rice

2 tablespoons finely
minced onion

2-3 tablespoons
slivered, toasted
almonds

Soak saffron in 14 cup chicken broth for 1
hour. Strain and reserve saffron liquid. Heat
butter or margarine in a heavy 2-quart oven-
proof kettle. Add rice and onion and sauté,
stirring constantly, until rice becomes straw-
colored. Do not allow to overbrown. Stir in 1
cup chicken broth and saffron liquid. Cover
kettle, transfer to a moderately hot oven,
400° F., and bake for 20 minutes or until rice
has absorbed all liquid. Stir once with a fork.
Heat remaining chicken broth and add to rice.
Cover, reduce heat to 200° F., and bake 10-15

minutes more. Remove coyer, add almonds,
toss lightly with a fork. Leave in oven (uncov-
ered) for 4-5 minutes. Makes 4 servings.

Sucaryl 0
as
@Sucaryl wt &
—Abbott's Non-Caloric Sweetener fo 3 es & *

' j li lo | liranda
| | | | (| ind orned about
1] ula | | trun the
{ it wasn't fair to Poll
| I houschold jobs with
it ny ni

/\ / while and vather my strength

hia idea
| ighed and ondered whether the
lay lectures were worth the effort, Noth
Wie er suid that helped her in the least

hat would a woman like Mrs, Gordon think
if she knew the real problem? 7 have nothing
yonon with a woman like that. thought

The two

than ¢

Miranda yvomen had never don

mor xchange occasional intr

pleas

ibout the thendship of them daughter Th

iwo girls were inseparable, One had only to
lool iu Sue Gordon to know that Mt
Gordon was a successful mother
Ind J am not, thought Miranda, She closed
her eyes and repressed an impulse to burst
cakly into tears, Maybe if 1 could
Vins, Gordon about Carol he thought hk

hind her eyelids she saw a picture of hersell
talking intimately to Sue Gordon's mothe
/ hdne't

blow

understand what it was

mother of a girl like Su
like to be the motl

could the

ofa girl like Carol? Sue was cheertul ut
ous, kind, full of eager curiosity and natu
miiely The perfect teenager, | n
swcemed (oO relax and enjoy hersell hen

was around, Tt was a pleasure to have her

the house, /ler mother mua

thine vied fromithy \ ry) Ayeg fill tho mh NI
randa, Her head made smalh worrned
ments on the pillow, Soenicn /
wronme, Pve made sonu

Because Carolis an

Miranda blue eves Hew wide open
shocks the thought bad Town unbidden o
of some hidden cave tn her mind, A
wil O/ course v/i \ \

Ah ¢ \ Si S

yripath and understanding and patience
Sli just oversensitive and proud and worried
abou ny popular, Pressu a 0 awful on
hid / i

S/ 1 NOnSTO)

Miranda heard the front door open and

held her breath irol hummed, if her step

If ¢

t of the day might not be toc

bad, If her tread was hea ind her mu
t ks crashed wh on the hall tabl n
certains wa thy nin rar med
Mea, i tep advanced along the hall, The
book rashed, Miranda tool leep breath
put her hands together once | nall prayer
Tul westure ind got out Of bee
Carol was in the living room Hello
darling Wd Miranda
Carol did not an I ye turn
ictly like Miranda toward her mot rand
fixed her ith a bleak blu Did i
tit
Get hat
Ih n I |
tl iund tin Nis | I
Oh! ¥ ’ I
Hany
| "iy Did
tl | lth 1 | ul
I
1 } (1 \ |
|
| | on ! nut
\ al
( | thi ni
) ( th I n
hi } ther fin in
| il ra ill er { n, Cal
Ih by il tor her
I { | pl nl n think f
Viiranda counted to ten. Her fell on the
wun I | ounted to twent She
cided she had not had quite enough rest to
bring up t uum cleaner, She forced her
to b OW nad pl isant | pl ked up
our pink iter from the cleaner

Carol mumbled behind her crossed arm
What?
I said it ibout time. It’s only been th
ibout six month
Six da
Himpfl Did the ret the spot out?
| don't kr I suppo
Didn't ye / You ought to h nse
ough to | | rt lake i t
lean befor ue brur t hon M 3
liranda f t | ht ts burn
| high up on heek y ittitud
ich } | | nk
Caro uy © rrict I uid
| | room, stubbing her
{ n 1) n Sh 1 it a
ok
I ram nt lirand tood rooted. She
had th veird impr on that she was be
nning t Il: all her ints felt puff Any
nn nt she ould plode like a cheap
balloon. ve la he thought. Every day /
th something like th light stepped
kin | ie went to the kitchen. She
led a pan from the cupboard and slammed
oor if olently that it flew open
.. J can lo anything to please her, she
{ tht. Sh hut the cupboard door again
nd pinched her finger. Tears of self-pity came
{ er eye
Pol ime in from her bike ride Hi
| '* Her cropped brown hair was wind
tousled; she wore rumpled white shorts and
in immen era weat shirt gone at. the
Ibows. She exuded warmth and sunlight and
ne She thre her arn round Miranda
ind nuzzled her gently in the neck M-m-m-m
You smell onderful. You've got on that
perfume daddy gave ou
Miranda could feel her skin beginning to
loosen, responding gratefully to Polly’s af
fectionate touch, Carol never touched her
ind Miranda own attempts at showing
iffection were always met with stiff, resistant
flesh. She gave Polly a compulsive, satisfying
hug

Hey, mom, gue vhat. Jeannie’s haying a

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LADIES HOME JOURNAL

That's nice said Miranda
With boys. Her mother’s making pizza,
ind she’s got all these records and stuff, and

he actually invited these boys from our class,
Is it O.K

Miranda considered. Polly was shooting al-
I don’t see why not. If

if I go
most visible sparks
ou want to

said Polly. “A
don’t

Jeannie had the nerve to ask them. I’d never

I can’t really imagine it,”

party with boys. Gee. I know
have the nerve, that’s for sure.”

I suppose you’re old enough to go to a
party with boys,” said Miranda. “Don’t go if
it worries you, though.”

“I wouldn't
Polly

and we can dance

miss it said

“They’ve got this swell family room,
Those dumb boys neve

for anything,”

want to dance, but maybe they will at a partys

Old Jeannie’ll make Don Briggs dance with

her. They go steady.”

Steady? At thirteen?

Sure,” said Polly. “Lots of girls my age go
steady. Even younger. Or else they just talk
ibout boys all the time. They’re as bad ag

Carol and Sue Gordon. That’s all Carol and
Sue ever talk about. It’s sickening.
Sh-h-h! Miranda in alarm.
cocked her head toward Carol’s room
Well, it is,” said Polly, lowering her voice
slightly. “I wish they'd hurry up and get boy
Then maybe they'd
quit fa/king about it for five minutes.”
Ill have to admit I don’t understand it,”
Miranda. She looked at

daughter puzzled

She

said

friends, that’s what I wish

said her younger

with blue eyes. “They're
both pretty

They're scared,’ said Polly matter-of-
factly Ihey’re so scared that the boys think
they're stuck up. So asked,
Phat’s what / think.”

Little Miss
Miranda

Yies.~

let it show, though

they dont get

A dvice-to-the-Lovelorn,” said

Are you scared of boys, Polly?”

‘lm not ever going to
That’s one thing I learned
I don’t care how scared I am, |
Listen, do you think that

boy’s going to ask Carol to the prom?”

said Polly

from Carol

won't let it show

Pray

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106

something to her hair. There was no way to
predict what mood she would be in when she
emerged. /’d better lie down, thought Miranda,
just to be on the safe side. She started toward
her bedroom and the doorbell rang.

It was Sue Gordon. ‘‘Hi, Mrs. Weatherby.”
The afternoon sun struck gold in her brown

hair. She smiled her wide, sweet smile. ““Carol
home?”

“Yes. Come in, Sue.’ Miranda smiled at
the girl.

Any idea of taking a nap now was out;
the house would be too noisy. Sue was dar-
ling, but Sue was noisy. Anyway, a nap was
not quite so necessary with Sue in the house
to put Carol in a better mood. /’// go for a
walk while she’s here, thought Miranda. A
walk would do me good.

“That you, Sue?’ called Carol. She
bounded into the living room. “Hi. Hey,
you’ve got some new pedal pushers. They’re
neat.”

“Thanks,” said Sue. ‘Excuse me, Mrs.
Weatherby.” She smiled at Miranda and
walked past her to fling herself down on the
couch beside Carol.

“Those are really neat ”’ said Carol. “I wish
mom would buy me something decent once
in a while.”

“Oh, come on,” said Sue. She got you that
blue skirt just last week.”

“Oh, that thing,” said Carol.

The skirt had cost eighteen dollars and
Carol had campaigned for it for weeks.
Miranda began to feel puffy again.

“Listen, Sue,” said Carol “did anybody
call or anything? You know.” She glanced up
at Miranda, who was gaping at her, still
thinking about the blue skirt. ‘““What’s the
matter, mom?”

“Nothing,” said Miranda.
all.”’ Her voice went a little high.
take a little walk.”

“Well, fix your hair first,’ said Carol. “It
looks terrible. Come on, Sue, spill it. Did you
get a call or anything?’

“No,” said Sue. “Not a word.

“Are you kidding?”

Miranda, ignored, shifted her weight from
one foot to the other and bumped into the
vacuum cleaner. She stared down at it, one
hand already on the doorknob, and some-
thing inside her came to high, irresistible boil.

“This vacuum cleaner,” she said very
loudly and very distinctly, “has been sitting
here all day. It was put here by you, and it was
left here by you. I want it used and I want it
put away.”

“What?” said Carol.

“T said I want this floor vacuumed by the
time I get back. I'm going out. And IT want
this room done before I get back.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake, mom. I told you I'd
do it. P'Il do it. Can’t you just quit nagging me
about it?’’ She turned to Sue. “Do you still
think they might call today?”

Pure anger flooded Miranda. She said
sharply, “Carol!”

“What ?”

”

“Nothing at
“T think PI

Did you?”

E
Lhe face Carol turned to her mother was
pink with exasperation, and so loaded with
long-suffering that Miranda wanted to slap it.
Her fingertips tingled. She clutched the door-
knob, restraining herself by an effort of will.
She could not possibly speak at this moment.
If I say one word, she thought, I’// say them
all. P'll shout them all. I'll let her have it. I
should have spanked her when she was little.
I should have beaten some manners into her
from the day she was born. Anger seized and
jolted her with the force of raw electricity. She
clung to the doorknob and forced herself to
think calm. Bits and scraps from all the duti-
fully read books, the dutifully attended lectures
floated into her mind: teenagers are beset with
problems; teenagers need sympathy and un-
derstanding; try to understand your
problems.

And Miranda, who had never sworn in her
life, had one black and overpowering thought:
To hell with it. She opened the door and
walked out.

teen’s

She walked. She walked around corners,
past houses bright with spring sunshine,
through unknown streets, past small children

playing on sidewalks. They stared innocently

up at her, and Miranda thought, You too.

You'll grow up and turn into teenagers. Her
mouth turned downward. She plodded on,
paying no attention to where she was going.
I wanted to hit her. I actually wanted to hit her.
A strand of hair fell down over her eye, and
she pushed it back, glancing up at the street
sign. Jefferson.

Sue lived on Jefferson.

I need help, thought Miranda. J need a
human voice to tell me what to do. She looked
at me as though she hated me. My own daughter
hates me. Tears came to her eyes. Maybe I
could talk to Sue’s mother. I’ve got to talk to
somebody. She reached Sue Gordon’s block
and rushed on in the opposite direction. /
can't possibly talk to Mrs. Gordon. I can’t let
anybody know what a failure I’ve been.

She was suddenly terribly tired. Too tired
to go home. Home was the one place she
couldn’t go when she was tired. She stood on
a street corner, looking blankly at the strange
houses. J always meant to be a good mother.
She turned around and went back to Jefferson
Street. She walked up to the Gordon house
and rang the bell.

Miranda had never seen Sue’s mother in her
own home. For a moment the woman who
answered the door looked like a stranger. Her
tanned face and level gray eyes were unsmil-
ing. and she wore no make-up. Her graying
black hair, usually perfectly groomed, was
helter-skelter.

“Oh,” she said when she saw Miranda,
“Mrs. Weatherby. Come in.”

nie APALAPLN

Other Views, Sizes and Prices of Vogue Patterns on Pages 68 & 69.

9481 5236 5236

9492

5438

5462 5322

\\ 5 OP
ba im
Bc 5501
5498 \|

5501

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5500. One-piece dress; 10-18; $1.00. On sale March 10.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5481. Coat;

10-18 (31-38);

$1.50. Version shown

requires 31% yards of 54” fabric without nap, size 14.

VOGUE
10-18 (31
out nap, size 14.

DESIGN NO. 5236.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5462.
shown requires 23¢
fabric without nap for blouse, 314
edging for jacket trim, size 14.

“Easy to Make”
38); $1.00. Version shown requires 27% yards of 39’ fabric with-

Suit and blouse; 10

one-piece dress and stole;

42 (31-44); $2.00. Version

¢ yards of 54” fabric without nap for suit, 214 yards of 39”
yards of 4

’ flat braid and 6 yards of novelty

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5438. ‘‘Easy to Make’”’ jacket and scarf; 10-18 (31-38);
75c. Version shown requires 114 yards of 54” fabric without nap, size 14.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5322
ment;
26 waist.

“Easy to Make”’
75c. Version shown requires 11% yards of 54’

24-30 waist measure-
fabric without nap, size

skirt;

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5492. One-piece dress; 10-18 (31-38); $1.00. Version
shown requires 134 yards of 54” fabric without nap, size 14. On sale March 10.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5504. Jumper dress, blouse and jacket and slip; girls’

sizes 4-8

(23-26); $1.00. Version shown requires 17% yards of 54”’ fabric without

nap for jumper and jacket, 14 yard of 35’ fabric without nap for detachable col-

lar, and 114

yards of 35” fabric for blouse, girls’ size 6. On sale March 10.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5498. Boys’ suit and shirt; boys’ sizes 4-8 (23-26);

$1.00. Version shown requires 1°¢

yards of 54’ fabric without nap for suit,

134 yards of 35” fabric without nap for shirt, boys’ size 6. On sale March 10.

VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5501. Sub-teen blazer and skirt;

(28-33); 75c. Version shown requires
sub-teen size 12. On sale March 10.

sub-teen sizes 8-14
3 yards of 54’’ fabric without nap,

Buy Vogue Patterns at the store which sells them in your city. Or order by mail, enclosing check or money

order

Terminal A, Toronto 1, Ont. Some prices slightly higher
sent third-class mail. If you desire shipment first-class mail,

add sales tax.) These patterns will be

, from Vogue Pattern Service, P.O. Box 630, Aitoona, Pa.; or in Canada from P.O. Box 4042,

in Canada. (*Calif. cnd Pa. residents please

please include 10c additional for each pattern ordered.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

She led the way to a big, airy living room.
Its a nice home, thought Miranda. It’s the
kind of home you'd expect Sue to live in. She
imagined vaguely that Mrs. Gordon spent a
lot of time in the living room reading psychol-
ogy books. A cigarette was burning on an ash-
tray near the couch, and a half empty glass
sat beside it. “I just happened to be in the
neighborhood,” said Miranda.

“I’m glad you stopped in,”
Gordon. “Sit down.”
and said, “Drink?”

“Oh, no. Thanks.’ Miranda smiled nery-
ously. “I don’t drink.”

“Let me get you some coffee.”

She disappeared in the direction of the
kitchen and came back with coffee and a plate
of cookies. ee

“Thank you ”’ said Miranda. She sipped the #
coffee and tried to think what she could say
to this silent and rather formal stranger.

““Sue’s at your house, isn’t she?”’ said Mrs.
Gordon.

“Yes,”

said Mrs.
She picked up the glass

said Miranda.

The girls spend a lot of time together.
That’s an awfully nice girl you have there.”
Mrs. Gordon lifted her glass and took a small |
drink.

Miranda gave a small embarrassed laugh.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.
Sort of.”

Mrs. Gordon put down her drink and very
briefly closed her eyes. “Is Sue giving you any
trouble? I mean any trouble at all?”

“Oh, no,”’ said Miranda. “‘Sue’s a lovely
girl. Exactly the kind of friend I would have
ordered for Carol myself.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Gordon. She stirred her
drink. “‘That’s nice.”

“It’s just that—well, I think I need advice.
About Carol.’ Miranda’s eyes began to fill
again. She put her coffee cup down very care-
fully and looked at the pattern on the cup.
“You know so much about psychology and
all. And I’ve been having . . . I mean ——”’
she raised her eyes and looked at Sue’s mother.
“Tt just seems that I c-can’t’’—she felt her chin
quiver and raised her hand to support it—
“can’t do anything right. As a mother. It’s
just like a—like a war between us all the time.”
She forced her mouth to stop quivering and
put her hands in her lap and smiled a bright
strained smile. ‘““The thing is,” she said, he
voice beginning loud and firm and then col-
lapsing, “I don’t know what to do.”

“IT see,” said Mrs. Gordon. Her mouth
seemed to have fallen slightly open.

Miranda plunged on. “I feel as though ]
don’t have the strength to go on, sometimes
To be a good mother. Today, for example. |
didn’t get a nap, and I take naps, you see
Every day before Carol gets home fro
school. To prepare myself. You know? Tha
sounds terrible. It’s just as though I can’t fac’
her unless I’ve rested a while.”

Mrs. Gordon put down her drink. ‘This i
a surprise,” she said. “‘This is really a sur
prise.”

“Its probably all my own fault,” sai
Miranda miserably. “I don’t know.”

“Is it something Carol does? Or is it h
attitude, mainly?”

“Her attitude, I guess. | ——

“Does she seem to hate you sometimes
Most of the time?”

“Oh, yes. That’s the ——”’

“Balks at doing anything you tell her to de
The slightest thing?”

“Yes. This morning —— ;

“Criticizes you, I suppose. What you web
what you cook, what you say.” A stray
glitter had come into Mrs. Gordon’s eye
She leaned forward. “Feels abused whatev,
you ask of her, behaves with unspeaka’
rudeness ——” Re bleng

‘“‘That’s one of the worst things about ——

“Spends hours and hours and hours,” sa
Mrs. Gordon, “‘on her personal appearand ®t, cle
Attacks your friends. Thinks you’re stup QE a
Shuts you out of her life completely.”” M
Gordon’s face was turning a dull red. Ff’ yp,
voice was beginning to carry a faint, keeni
note. “‘Bursts into tears at the slightest pro)
cation. Bursts into tears without any provo
tion. Snarls at her younger brothers a

”

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CONTINUED ON PAGE

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| CONTINUED FROM PAGE 106

| sisters. Has no sense of humor, none whatso-

ever, regarding herself or her affairs. Can’t
understand why her father married you.”
Mrs. Gordon snatched up her glass and took
a long drink. Miranda watched her with
widening eyes.
“Sue?” she whispered. “You and Sue?”
Something seemed to be happening to Mrs.

| Gordon’s face. Miranda had the strange im-

pression that it was cracking.

““Some women take naps,” said Mrs. Gor-
don. “Some women drink. I drink.” She lifted
her glass and threw Miranda a haggard look.
“You,” she said. “You. That’s the final sur-
prise. If I ever thought there was one success-
ful mother, it’s you.”

“Why me?” said Miranda. She looked at
Mrs. Gordon in astonishment.

“You're so quiet,” said Mrs. Gordon. “So
nice. You /ook like a mother. I see you at
those meetings, and I see your daughter here,
and I think there’s one woman who has it
made. No problems.”

‘““No problems!” exclaimed Miranda.

“T’]l tell you something,” said Mrs. Gordon.
“There are times when I’m not sure I can live
through it.”

“Me too,’ whispered Miranda hopelessly.

“Teenagers,” said Mrs. Gordon vindic-
tively. ““Monsters. All of them.”

“Do you really think so?” said Miranda.
‘Maybe it’s just our two girls. ’ye wondered,
you know. At the meetings. The women all
seem so happy and—you know. Sure of
themselves.”

“Listen,” said Mrs. Gordon. “I’ve done a
little investigating. A little quiet investigating.
All those women. Down underneath they’re
going mad. I mean it. You scratch any modern
female with a teenage daughter and you find a

| woman on the edge of hysterics. Believe me.

It’s the world’s biggest secret society.”

“Oh,” said Miranda. “That makes me feel
better. It probably shouldn’t, but it does. I
thought maybe—you know—Z/ was the mon-
ster. There’s so much I don’t know. About
psychology and all.”

“You want to know about psychology, I'll
tell you about psychology,” said Mrs. Gor-
don. “I’ve got a degree in psychology. Those
psychologists who write the books aren’t
mothers. Or else their kids are all grown and
they’ve forgotten what it’s like. The way you
forget childbirth. Oh, they can tell you what
to do if your child is a compulsive liar. Or a
bed-wetter. Or a thief or something. But they
don’t tell you what to do really. They just
run on about how you’ve got to be syimipa-
thetic. And understanding.”

“IT know it,’ said Miranda.

“Tl tell you who needs the sympathy,”
said Mrs. Gordon. “I'll tell you who needs the
understanding. The mothers need it.” :

“I’ve even thought maybe I should see’a
psychiatrist,” said Miranda.

“I’ve seen one,” said Mrs. Gordon. Her
face seemed to cave in completely. “Some-
times I think I can’t go on.”

“Don’t cry,” said Miranda.

“It’s not that I don’t love Sue,” said Mrs.
Gordon. “‘I love her.”’ She wiped her nose. “I
just don’t like her very much.”

“Carol isn’t a bad girl,” said Miranda.
*‘She’s very kind to animals.”

**So.is Sue. Sue loves animals.”

**Maybe things will work out.”

Y
Soon: or later,” said Mrs. Gordon.
“‘They’ve got to.”’ She blew her nose again and
sat up straighter, looking a little more cheer-
ful. “You know what I think? I think the girls
will straighten out any day now. Any day. I
honestly believe we’re on the edge of a break-
through. For one thing,” she said, growing
suddenly as brisk as she appeared at PTA
meetings, “human strength can endure only
so much. Isn’t that true? I mean it’s just not
possible that we’d have to live with this sort
of thing indefinitely. It’s against nature. And
I understand they always get better when
they’re seventeen.”

“Oh, really?” said Miranda. She clasped
her hands and felt a flush of hope. **You mean
just automatically—at seventeen ——”

“Some of them are almost human then,”
said Mrs. Gordon. “And another thing—I

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

think it’s probably the main thing, really—T
think the girls are on the verge of getting the
boy question settled. As a matter of fact,
think if they’d get a bid for the prom next week
it might turn the trick.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Miranda.
“Oh. I do hope they get dates.” ]
‘All we can do is keep our fingers crossed,

said Mrs. Gordon.

The two women looked at each other for a
Jong moment in mutual sympathy. “Id better
get back home now,” said Miranda. “‘I think
I’ve probably burned up a pie, but I don’t
care. I'm so glad I talked to you.”

Mrs. Gordon’s mouth curved in a crooked
attractive smile. ““Welcome to the society.”

Miranda, walking home, felt almost light:
headed with the relief of unloading hé&
troubles. I’m no different from other mother.
she thought. I’m human! She was smiling as
she entered her house.

5
Sie apparently, had gone. The living room
had been vacuumed and dusted. Somewhere
in the house Carol was singing. Singing
Miranda listened with unbelieving ears.
rush of footsteps came down the hall.
**Mother! Guess what. The boys called! Sue
and I are going to the prom.”

“Darling,” said Miranda, “I’m so glad.’
She reached out tentatively to put her ar
around Carol, and the girl gave her a wa
delighted hug. Miranda felt suffocated wit!
pleasure.

“John Thorpe asked me,” said Carol. ““The
most absolutely wonderful boy in school
Mother, do you suppose I could wear your
rhinestones?”

“Of course,” said Miranda. She searched)
her mind for other largess. “My evening
wrap. Would you like to wear that?” .

“Mother, you’re a doll,” said Carol. ‘‘Hey,¥
I vacuumed the floor. Doesn’t the living roo
look nice?”

“Lovely,” said Miranda, dazed with the
generosity of fate.

“I took your pie out,” said Carol. “It
looked done. Where’ve you been, anyway?

“IT took a walk.”

“Polly’s been looking for you. She’s got her
hair fixed a new way, and it’s just darling
She’s going to a party with boys. Isn’t that
fantastic? Want me to set the table? What’
the matter?”

Miranda was staring at Carol in stupefae
tion. “‘Nothing’s the matter,’ she sai
dreamily. “Tll go find Polly.”

Polly was in the bathroom. “How does my
hair look, mom?”

“I love it,” said Miranda.

“It looks terrible in the back,” said Polly

“It doesn’t. It looks perfectly charming.

Polly gave her a resentful look. ““Oh, you’dy
say that. No matter what.” |

“No, I wouldn’t. Really.” A small, harassed
line appeared on Miranda’s forehead. |

“What I want to know is, what am I going
to wear to that party?”

“Oh .. . tomorrow, you mean? The one
with boys?”

“Yes, the one with boys. My gosh. What}
one do you think I mean, for Pete’s sake?”

“What?” said Miranda. “What did you
say?” She felt a swimming sensation. She
closed her eyes and leaned against the wall

“You never listen,” said Polly. ““Nobod
around here ever listens to me.” She slamme
the brush down on the counter and stalked¥
past Miranda to the door. |

“Polly,” said Miranda, “‘wait. Polly—look
at me.”

Polly turned stiffly. In her face was all the]
patience of the sorely tried, the suffering o
the mortally wounded, the outrage of the
world’s betrayed. “Well,” she said, “what doy
you want?” ]

Miranda took a long breath. She looked}
into Polly’s eyes and saw that she was looking
into the eyes of a stranger, an alien. She p
her hand out and felt the resisting flesh of am
enemy. “Never mind, darling,’ she said. Shé
withdrew her hand and walked slowly towaré
her bedroom.

I must lie down, she thought. J really musi
lie down. Polly is only thirteen. She sat dowr
heavily on her bed and wondered whether she
could manage. somehow, to sleep for
next three years. END

|
|

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ARCH, 1962

TWO
SIDES
OF THE
. COIN

y OLIVE HOLMES

llowances are supposed to teach children
yw to handle money. The dole system in our
yuse has taught the children how to handle
oney all right, but not the way we think
ey ought to handle it.

A quarter in Jane’s open palm travels an
tirely different course from that of a similar
in in Susan’s tight little fist. For one is a
ender, the other a saver. This is not a mat-
r of training or diet or example or racial
ickground or of how much money they get,
hough it might have something to do with
eir metabolism. We have been able to dis-
ver just one common denominator. They
e both money-mad.

Susan, the eight-year-old, is in love with
e sound and the feel of the stuff. There are
ree piggy banks in her room, loaded, and
ey are periodically emptied in the center of
r bed for counting purposes, a routine pro-
dure which occurs every Saturday morning
id seems to get the day off to a good start.
She is also in possession of two bankbooks,
eferring to diversify her investments, not
cause of the safety involved but because of
vertain Mr. Gorham, bank teller. Mr. Gor-
im is a kindly, bald-headed gentleman who
eps gumdrops in his drawer, which he pre-
its to each depositor whose nose barely
mes up to the edge of his window. When
an discovered that Mr. Gorham had a

me, “I don’t get it. That child has seventeen
skirts, seventeen—and yet she hasn’t got a
dime to take a bus. It’s crazy.”

“She is learning to stay within her allow-
ance,”’ I said. “It’s probably good for her.”

“Good for her!”” my husband bellowed.
“She looks as if she worked in a sweatshop.
Starving herself to buy a new skirt. Can’t you
knock some sense into her?”

But I couldn’t. Jane had her own defini-
tion of what made sense. She never asked for
an advance. She simply struggled along in her
own fashion, and, we had to admit, probably
always would.

It did not take her long to learn that there
were greener pastures than home where some
extra income could be acquired. We knew
that she would do anything, even join the
town garbage department, to keep square
with the world. But we did not expect her
breathless announcement one morning that
she had found a summer job.

“That’s fine, Jane,’”’ said daddy, always
dangerously ready to encourage initiative in
spite of past experiences. “What is it?”

“I’m waitressing,”’ she said.

“Waitressing? Where?”

“At Joe’s.”’

“Joe’s? Who’s Joe?”

““Joe’s Bar and Grill.”’

Daddy dropped his paper. ‘“‘You are not

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mdrop for her every time she appeared, she doing any such thing,” he said. ““That’s a—a
»mptly opened an account there with one barroom.”

sher carefully hoarded dollar bills. “T’ve already got the job,’”’ said Jane.
Presumably, every time she feels the urge ‘“They told me they wanted a nice, refined
|a gumdrop she pries open her piggy bank _ girl like me and I didn’t need any experience
1 takes some moola down to Mr. Gorham. either. And it pays ——”

blic-relations departments of banks, “T don’t care what it pays,’’ said daddy.
ase note.) I’m sure she will always think ‘‘You are not to go near that place.”

bank interest in the shape of gumdrops. “But I need the money!”’ she wailed.

3ut she still likes to keep a good deal of He looked at Jane, decked out in her new-
h on hand because it’s fun to put in piles est skirt (this one made eighteen all told) and
feel and count over and over again. Ten the cashmere sweater which mother had not
ies, to her, make far more noise than a_ yet been able to afford in seventeen years of
le and are therefore more soul-satisfying. marriage.

\he dollar bills, though, are the real joy. “You need money,”’ he said, “‘just about as
fen an uncle came to visit us some time badly as I need a—a Thoroughbred horse.”
/ and presented Susan with a crisp dollar At this point Susan piped up. “Do you
y, she put on such an act that he was con- needa horse, daddy?” she said. “I’ve got one
Need the poor child had never seen any for you.”’

fey in her life. ““What are you going to “Susan,” he said, “eat your breakfast.”
with it?” he inquired, after her delighted “T have got one. It’s a pony. And the man
feals had subsided. said I could have it for twenty-five dollars.
jusan folded it carefully and tucked it And I’ve got twenty-five dollars.”

Wn her neck. “I shall keep it,” she an- “You’ve got twenty-five dollars?”

mced, “forever and ever.” “Yup. I added everything up yesterday
I thought you’d like to.buy something and I’ve got twenty-five dollars. So I’m go-
1” he said, obviously disappointed. ing to buy a pony. I hate to use it. But I can
ere’s nothing I want more than always get more money and I can’t always
ey,’ said Susan. get a pony. So if you'll drive me over to
er he had left, we found Susan in the Horton’s Farm ——”

en. She had plugged in the steam iron

was carefully pressing the dollar bill. I Susan did not buy a pony and Jane did not
P no idea what happened to it after that, take the job. But that evening we took a
it was given to Mr. Gorham in ex- good long look at our own budget.

nge for a gumdrop. “There’s something wrong somewhere,”
#ne, on the other hand, is the original said my husband, ‘‘when our two daughters
#-or-famine girl. Money not only burnsa are in the horse-buying, cashmere-sweater
© in her pocket; it blasts one. Every two class and our luxuries are strictly limited to
€xs a rather generous amount, we think, is an evening at the movies every six months
: her. Since she is all of sixteen, this al- or so.”’

floors than continued use of most

kitchen waxes. The reason is simple.
Many of today’s self-polishing
waxes are made primarily of
synthetic plastics. They are impos-
sible to remove from wood floors
without causing serious damage.

As aresult, you keep putting clean ff
wax on top of old, dirt-embedded
wax until your wood floor becomes
darkened and discolored.

Before this happens to your wood
floors, start taking care of them in the
right way with either Bruce Cleaning
Wax or Bruce Floor Cleaner. Each
contains a removable liquid paste wax :
and a wood floor cleaner. They clean;
remove old, soiled wax; and leave a
rich, new coat of paste wax i
protection—all at the same time!

Which product is best for you?

If you like a heavy coat of wax,
it’s Bruce Cleaning Wax. For
lighter waxing and cleaning extra
dirty floors, use Bruce Floor
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care is yours for the asking. Write E. L.

ent is supposed to cover clothes, movies, “Tt’s all in the way they work it,” I said.
Bruce Co., Dept. L-1, Memphis, Tenn.

<s, school lunches, bus fare and miscel- ‘‘One saves and the other just earns more. So
Tous nonsense like banana splits. It is they come out better than we do because we
%t immediately and usually covers only don’t do either.”

ies, with perhaps three or four banana My husband frowned over the budget
Is. Then follow two lean and hungry book.

2s during which Jane behaves like a “Perhaps if you pressed the dollar bills,”
ytan, working in the school cafeteria in he said, ‘‘they would look just too nice to
C- to eat, refusing excursions to the mov- spend. And maybe I could get an extra job in
snd walking two miles to school. At the the evenings at Joe’s Bar and Grill.”’

r time, she is engaged in a frantic effort Allowances may not teach children any-
‘ake some money around the house or in thing about money. But they do give parents
l-sitting at the neighbors’ in order to a few ideas.

€ up with the game. Like writing this article, for instance. I
Ce day, after Jane came home looking need a cashmere sweater and/or a horse like
fard and travel-worn, my husband said to everything. END

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‘ONTINUED FROM PAGE 59

Mamma said, “Hallie, got everything?”
nd Hallie drew away from the window, afraid
o glance out the other side, afraid to look
arther, picked up her suitcase, and with her
heart sinking slowly and heavily to rock
»ottom went to the door. There was a row of
'tores across the street with tin awnings deep
is sunbonnets over the sidewalk. She should
ave known. And there was papa coming
ioward them, seeming distracted as if his mind
ere on God or the train. He kissed them
jastily, looked up the cindered walk to watcha
olored man swinging some crates off the
aggage car, said, “Hold on here a minute
ntil the train passes,”’ and hurried back into
e station.

“T like a little town,’ said mamma as they
rveyed the street. “You can get to know
erybody.”’ This remark of mamma’s posi-
vely made Hallie want to cry. Was mamma
inerely trying to look on the bright side, or
yas it, as Hallie felt more and more lately, a
ign of her insensitivity to finer things? More
ind more mamma simply did not come up to
jer idea of what a cultured woman of the
jouth should be. She had gone to the sem-
nary for young ladies over in Seneca, in
outh Carolina, a good enough start, but all
nat remained from that period was the din-
ng-room picture, an oil painting of a dead
sh with staring eyes on a plate in front of
ssaqueena Falls, and on the topmost rock of
ne falls an Indian maiden stood, with hands

Hnrequited love).
| The train whistled and pulled out, and, ever
‘Jopeful, Hallie turned to look in the other
firection. An asphalt highway paralleled the
. Macks, and behind a fence a field of purple-
#reen vetch stood a foot high. Beyond the
eld stood a row of houses. In the Greenwood
her dreams, white Southern mansions
hight sit there across this field behind these
blendid trees, but, as she feared, these houses
ere brown and ugly, only one of any size
homing up with fretwork and scrolls, gim-
acky trimmings of rust color on faded sand.
large F, fancy as the initial on an em-
Proidered pillowcase, adorned the side of the
House below an attic window. Near the high-

#ood a monument. She sighed; at least a
‘fonument, though on her imaginary map of
sreenwood it stood amid trees and grass on

2fore him, mounted on a tall shaft, glittered
) the afternoon sun. A monument to South-
#0 heroes, one symbol to rescue Greenwood
om utter drabness and nothingness.

ter the look at the town Hallie guessed
hat their house would be like, knew it and
t Hoped she would be wrong. But she was
bt. The house was a hit-or-miss old barn of a
ace with a wide front porch trimmed with
ncy banisters and gingerbread work across
e front. Rooms had grown to the back in a
aphazard, unplanned fashion. A long dark
all ran through the center of the front of the
Duse and ended in another hall that was half
prch and half room. Mamma said, “‘Isn’t
sis a wonderful cool room? We'll eat out here
hen it’s hot.”

Mamma’s enthusiasm, contrasted with
enny’s and Virginia’s gloomy looks, would
ve made Hallie sorry for her if she had not
lt so gloomy herself. Mamma had not
Janted to leave Glover at first. But papa,
ized and uncertain at losing his job with the
/¥ilroad there, could not find another job in
»Puth Carolina, and when finally he heard
out the job on the M. D. and S. in Georgia,
amma seemed to like the idea of a new town,
fresh start.

Benny had not wanted to come either. He
id stopped school when papa was out of a
b, and delivered telegrams for Western
nion. When he heard that Greenwood was
© small for a Western Union, he had not
anted to come. And here he was acting
rcastic about everything in Greenwood, and
fluencing Virginia to be sarcastic too.

When she and Virginia looked over their
bedroom, Virginia said, ‘‘Well, thank good-
ness it’s big enough so you won’t be all over
me,”’ as if Hallie were a fractious child. Vir-
ginia had already had her fifteenth birthday
and that made her closer to Benny.

Two ladies called on mamma before she
had time to change her dress. Going out the
front door to explore the yard, Hallie met
Miss Lill coming from the big white house
across the street. She loped across the street
like a schoolgirl; but she was followed by
three small children who called her mamma.
Miss Lill issued an invitation for all of them
to come to supper at her house. Then Miss
Beulah came, from an unpainted house
catercorner to them. She seemed to drop in
mainly to look them over, rolling her milky
protruding eyes around at the furniture, tell-
ing mamma _ how she was glad to see the
former occupants leave, as they had obstreper-
ous boys.

Were they the ones who built the tree house
in a shaggy water oak leaning over the swing
end of the front porch? Hallie climbed the
trunk, scruffy with dried tree fern, and took
refuge there while mamma labored to bring or-
der into the house below. She thought nos-
talgically of Glover in South Carolina. Glo-
ver’s downtown architecture was modern and
gracious. The Dempsey Hotel, six stories high,
stood grandly above the town square of stylish
brick stores with large plate-glass windows.
And Montpelier; Montpelier, the mansion that
gave point and purpose to Glover, with its six
round columns, its fanlight, its ironwork bal-
cony looking out on the spacious porch from
the second-floor hall, its curving driveway,
where on happy occasions passing to and
from school she saw Theodosia, the only child
of the owner, Mr. Ely Barton, galloping down
the driveway ona Shetland pony, her red curls
bouncing. Hallie had never been inside Mont-
pelier, could only imagine its spacious hall
and high-ceilinged parlor, but brooding on it
now in the tree house, feeling the meagerness
and meanness of Greenwood, she almost be-
gan to think of herself as from Montpelier. In
comparison to Georgia, the whole state of
South Carolina took on an aura of grace and
contentment.

When mamma called “‘Hallie-e-e,”’ she de-
scended to be drawn briefly into the settling of
the house. She leaned over the crates of books
and rescued her own, and when mamma was
away in another part of the house she carried
them to the tree house. Staring first into the
leaf-green light overhead, she drew pictures on
the flyleaves: a flag emblazoned with a pal-
metto in the upper left-hand corner; under the
flag she wrote a little verse:

Oh, South Carolina, the palmetto state,
Id like to leave this state I hate.

The first Sunday came. Papa got his Bible
and walked with his family to the Baptist
church. Hallie held herself straight and with-
drawn in her starched dotted swiss. (She came
from a finer state with higher standards and
must bear herself accordingly.) Miss Lizzie
Wallace, who ran the boardinghouse where
papa had stayed during the months before
they came, was waiting on the front steps of
the church; she drew Hallie smotheringly into
her big, soft, blue-voile bosom, exclaiming, “I
declare, I’m so glad to meet Brother Jones’s
little girls. You know, child, your father’s a
saint.”’ Papa’s face, always a little red, turned
even redder with pleasure.

Up in the Sunday-school room off the bal-
cony, Miss Emmy Belton said, “Aren’t we
fortunate to have one of Brother Jones’s
daughters in our class?” and looked around at
the class for agreement. A prissy-looking girl,
Laura Fitzgerald, pulled her organdy skirt
over for Hallie to sit down. The girl in front of
her, a girl with a neck so thick it pressed upon
her ears, turned out to be named Essie Jones.
Next to Essie sat a girl with fat reddish curls,
Margaret Craig. When she was called on for a
memory verse she said the whole thirteenth
chapter of First Corinthians. Her voice ranged
from loud to soft, and she paused dramatically
in the right places.

On the way out of class Hallie asked Mar-
garet where she lived. Margaret turned down
the corners of her mouth and said with a sob

in her voice, “‘I live in the jail. They only let
me out on Sundays.’ Then, seeing she had
mystified Hallie, she resumed her normal
voice with a giggle and said, “Aw, I’m just
teasing. But I do live in jail. Papa’s sheriff.”

During the next week Hallie lay in the tree
house hopeful that Margaret Craig might
come and call to her and give her a reason for
coming down out of the tree. But Margaret
did not come and when reading began to pall,
Hallie climbed down and ventured out into
the town, scuffing down on the sandy sidewalk
to the depot, where papa ran everything with
the help of the old Negro, Adam Lincoln.

Papa never said she should not come to the
depot, but he never showed enthusiasm like
mamma. Still she continued to seek him out
since there was nothing else to do, admiring
at times his courtly air that reminded her of
the Old South. He would rise from his chair at
the typing table when Miss Lizzie Wallace
came in. “Lovely day, Miss Lizzie. How are
all my friends down your way?” And Miss
Lizzie would simper and pat her frizzy yellow
hair and say, “Oh, Brother Jones, I declare we
miss you so.” Papa’s man-of-the-world air
with Miss Lizzie made Hallie wonder if he had
been different when he was boarding.

Sadly, however, papa’s courtly bow was
about the only characteristic he had of the
Southern gentleman. Of course he could have
been one had it not been for the war. Hallie
was proud that papa’s grandfather had been a
slave owner with a large plantation and had
lived in a beautiful old Southern mansion.
Everything had changed after the war. Instead
of growing up to be a gentleman and going to
the university down in Columbia, learning to
read Latin and Greek, becoming a doctor or a
lawyer or a planter, papa never went beyond
the fifth grade in school. When he was nearly
grown he scraped together a little money and
went off and learned telegraphy and here he
was chewing tobacco like a mill hand.

“Papa, have you been chewing a long
time?” Hallie asked him one afternoon.

“Ever since I was about eight years old, I
reckon.” he said, and leaned to spit. “‘Ever
since one time I was crying with the tooth-
ache, and a old colored woman, Sarah was
her name, give me a bite off her plug.”

Papa gave no indication that he was a man
with a fine coat of arms and ancestors who
spoke Latin. For all the citizens of Green-
wood could tell, he descended from the low-
liest poor-white ancestors up in Glover.

I was on a hot afternoon in the middle of
the watermelon season when Hallie saw Mr.
Jess Bailey on his horse for the first time and
fell in love and thought Greenwood, even
without Montpelier, might become bearable.
She had seen Mr. Jess Bailey on Sundays sit-
ting in the choir at church with his sister, Miss
Annie Laurie Jones. But Hallie had never seen
him riding a horse until this particular after-
noon. The brown horse had a white blaze on
its forehead and white socks on its thin elegant
legs that seemed to spurn the dust it stirred
up as it came. Caught in the haze of dust by
the afternoon sun, the dust turned golden, and
horse and rider seemed to come gold-tinged
from a myth or fairy tale.

Hallie was kneeling on the shaded bench in
front of Mr. Jess Bailey’s store, leaning raptly
on her hands to watch this knight riding out
of the mists and disappearing again, when
suddenly they turned toward her, came canter-
ing directly toward her and her heart almost
stopped, thinking she was to be chosen, she
was the princess. Mr. Jess Bailey jumped down
in front of her; mischief played in his blue
eyes and his dimples twinkled as he bent to-
ward her and said, “Honey, what you praying
for?”

Hallie was dazzled, felt magic still in the
air, and was tongue-tied. “I was praying for
a horse just like yours.”

Mr. Jess crinkled his blue eyes and said,
“Lady’s a right pretty horse.’’ Then, his blue
gaze on her again, piercing her, he took hold
of one of her plaits and lifted it gently from
her shoulder, held it for a heartbeat, and laid
it down again. “Honey, stick around and Ill
take you for a ride sometime,” he said, and
went on toward the store.

Hallie sat down weakly on the bench. When
it happened—tomorrow or next week—would

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110

she mount Lady alone, ride solemnly down
the street, holding herself with the innate grace
that belongs to all gentlewomen on horses,
the rough crowd in front of the cotton office
looking up to see her pass and saying, ““Look
at that there girl ride!”’.. . “Who’s she?”

“Why, she’s that Jones girl, Miss Hallie Jones,
just come to town... . “A natural-born rider
if ever I’ve seen one.”’? Or would she prefer to
be taken up on the horse in front of Mr. Jess
Bailey sidesaddle like Guinevere, or astride?

A slight ache
in head...
and heart

A head cold. Aching
muscles from a little fever
and he feels betrayed
by the adult world.
Look at those mournful
eyes! But there’s a quick,
pleasant way to relieve
this small boy’s

distress...

Astride, in front of Mr. Jess Bailey, his arms
could encircle her and hold the reins, his
breath blow on her neck, and when she
turned to smile at him, his lips might acci-
dentally touch her cheek.

The dream hung over her all day and before
she went to bed she thought Oh, Greenwood,
Greenwood, almost lovingly, thought of Mr.
Jess Bailey riding her on his horse up a long
curving driveway between great trees to a
Southern mansion called Montpelier.

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recommMend & to | ww er ren

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-when
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For a while then the days assumed a
character, a shape. When she wakened in the
morning she could look forward to the hour
when she would go to town and wait for Mr.
Jess Bailey to take her for a ride on his horse.
She sat so long on the bench in front of Mr.
Jess Bailey’s store that Virginia remarked her
skirt looked like a washboard. She even culti-
vated the dough-faced Essie Jones, whose
mother, Miss Annie Laurie Jones, was Mr.
Jess’s sister, married to Mr. Add Jones, the
rural mail carrier.

Hallie, offhand and subtle, not looking at
Essie, inquired where her uncle kept himself
these days, and Essie replied, ““Oh, Uncle Jess,
he’s always out huntin’ for kaolin.” Kaolin,
nothing but white clay mined at High Point,
now took on mysterious properties, attributes
of the Holy Grail. How did one hunt for
kaolin? Did Mr. Jess Bailey ride on his beauti-
ful horse over hill and dale, holding a divining
rod like a spear before him? Or did he walk,
lonesome through the woods and fields, his
horse reins loose over one arm while he
stopped and turned the red crust with the toe
of his shoe, seeking for the white clay beneath?

The weather got hotter; the dog days had
come. Hallie lay between showers in the tree
house, listening to the rustle of leaves.

From the McGhee house across the street
came the voices of the littlke McGhees, sweet
and constant as the chitter of sparrows,
broken occasionally by the loud schoolgirl
voice of their mother, Miss Lill McGhee. At
noon Doc McGhee would drive up in his car
for dinner and soon that repulsive tramp,
Lucius Ledbetter, would come walking up the
street with a strange sidewise motion, like a
crayfish. His head seemed permanently drawn
to his right and the arm and leg on that side
did not seem to work properly. Miss Lill
always fixed him a plate and after eating he
would sit on the porch in a rocking chair with
one or more of the littke McGhees in his lap.
All through the drowsy hours when the world
was still and hot and Hallie lay drugged in the
tree house dozing over St. Elmo or Maori and
Settler, he would sit and rock the babies while
the older children played near him.

Or Hallie would half listen to Miss Beulah
visiting with mamma down on the porch under
the tree. Miss Beulah was gradually acquaint-
ing mamma with the town. Hallie would rouse
up, rest her head on one hand and hold her
breath to hear when Miss Beulah got on the
subject of love and sex. Miss Beulah claimed
to possess the peculiar talent of being able to
tell when a girl was pregnant long before the
girl knew it herself; she said she could do it
just by looking into the girl’s eyes.

But Miss Beulah, her brother Mr. Willy
Featherstone, the McGhees and Lucius Led-
better were really of no more interest to
Hallie than the birds. She still was waiting for
Mr. Jess Bailey.

One Saturday afternoon in early August
Aunt Relly came to the house with two brush
brooms to sweep the yard.

“Mrs. Jones,” said Aunt Relly, “you going
to want a cook when school gits started, ain’t
you?”

“T thought you had the job down at school,”
said mamma.

“It ain’t for me,” said Aunt Relly. “It’s
for’—here she bent over the brush broom,
closely worrying a piece into position — “it’s
for a kind of niece of mine. She’s come up
from the country to stay with me.”

“T usually do the cooking,” said mamma.
““My idea has been to train my daughters.”
And mamma looked at her only daughter
present with disappointment in her gray eyes.
“What’s your niece’s name?”

“Elberta,” said Aunt Relly. Hallie wanted
to laugh. Only a Negro would name a child
Elberta. “The Great Elberta Peach’ was
written on the framed picture of a large golden
peach hanging in the hall.

“Elberta’s going to live with you, then?”
said mamma.

“Well’m, I imagine so. It do look as though
she would.” She fetched a deep breath and
said, “She had to come, Mrs. Jones. Her pa
run her away from home. The fact is she just
hain’t got anywheres else to go.’’ She swept a
little space in front of her with one of the

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

brooms as if she were trying it out, then said,
“She ought to be right good help until
February or March, long in there.”

“Wouldn’t the man marry her?” asked
mamma with more interest in her voice.

“She won’t tell who he is,”’ said Aunt Relly.

“You cain’t pry her mouth open and make |
her. That’s why her pa run her away from |
home, cause she won’t tell.” {

Hallie knew as soon as she guessed that ‘
Elberta was going to have a baby what |
mamma’s decision would be. Mamma could
not resist anyone who was going to have a
baby.

Aunt Relly brought Elberta around on
Monday morning. Papa had just left for the
depot when there was a rap on the porch an nd
Aunt Relly called, ““Mrs. Jones, we here.

Behind Aunt Relly there was a tall, thi
white girl who stood in the door hesitantly. i
Hallie thought at once, Oh, there’s some
mistake, this is a white girl.

“Come on in, Elberta,” said mamma.
“You’d better Close the screen door before the ©
flies come in.’ {

Elberta jumped in suddenly and the screen | |
door shut with a bang. She stood there with |} *
her arms crossed awkwardly, hugging herself} '
as if she were cold. Her hair was very black, }!
black as a crow’s wing, but it was not kinky,
But Hallie could see that she was a Negro girl:
her faded shapeless dress, her run-over shoes”
with holes cut out for the toes to spread, anda:
face the color of rich cream. Her black hair }!
was arranged like that of the other Negroes }!!
who came in from the country, plaited in little!) \’
plaits all over her head. is

Aunt Relly said, “You train her, Mrs.)
Jones. She’s just a ignorant country girl andi %
you'll have to train her good.” mM
‘|

i May

i
W
il

1
|
|

A good teacher is so rare the rumor of him \

spreads like a scandal. JOHN ERKSKINE) ©
TEACHER'S TREASURY OF STORIES Sind

FOR EVERY OCCASION L

PRENTICE-HALL, INC. 10

Wise

Miss Beulah came by to visit before the) ™!
breakfast dishes were cleared. Mamma said.)
“This is Elberta, come to cook for us.” io

Miss Beulah acted surprised to see her there} ‘4
though Hallie felt sure that she had arrived!
so early because she had seen Elberta comejiiti’
with Aunt Relly. “Are you Samanthy Trib} \is
ble’s daughter, lives down in the Dewy Rosetitr
community?” Hild oy

Elberta said, ““Yes’m.” Aap Th

“But your name’s not Tribble, is it?’? Mis: cd
Beulah persisted. Mraie

Elberta hung her head down and her lon!»
black lashes lay along her golden cheeks an¢ib:
she said, ‘“No’m, no’m, my name’s Smith.” }i!Doc

“Oh, yes, I remember now,” said Mis})Wiri
Beulah. “Elberta Smith.” perk d

When she moved toward the front door tery:
leave Miss Beulah said, shaking her head ani} 7
clicking her tongue, “Uh, uh, just like her mepxte
She tell you who the man is?” nes

How could Miss Beulah possibly tell Elbert! prs,
was going to have a baby? Could she reall IN

tell by looking into the girl’s eyes? HWE to
“T haven’t asked her,” said mamma. “‘Shifite ()
just came.” Pre

“Well, if she’s like her ma, she won’t telnin.
though everybody in the county knows no} 5;
who Elberta’s father is. She looks just ed ED, eg
daughters. And Elberta’s mother is a mula en
Ain’t it terrible the temptation they alway use, H
put before our young boys? Even the bets \),
families has this kind of thing happen in ippio;:;
You would be downright surprised to kno b sh
who Elberta’s father is.’ Bloving

Mamma did not ask. She merely opened tlt \,.;
screen door and held it for Miss Beula} ‘},...
actually seeming to hurry her along. tre" &

Mamma was able to go off to Macon nopii\,,
that she had Elberta, riding on her pass on tl lly Fey
up train and down again in the afterno¢ Mi
lugging home a string bag full of grocerifi\y’;
from the chain store. Hallie would go out he :
the kitchen to keep Elberta company. She dfx;
not look like the kind of girl who would ph,
herself in the way of a man, tempting hij)i\y
as Miss Beulah suggested. She did not roll b)t)),
eyes or swing her hips.

M
i

MARCH, 1962

Hallie corrected Elberta’s English,
pretending that she was “my lady”
teaching the Negro children on her
Virginia plantation. “Do you have
brothers and sisters, Elberta?” she
asked.

*em.”’ She kept busy rubbing the bot-
_ tom of the pan with cleanser.
| “Of them,” corrected Hallie. “How
" many brothers and sisters?”

Elberta looked as if she were both-
| ered by mosquitoes. ‘Four brothers,
two sisters,” she said. She picked up
the dishpan full of water and sud-
denly Hallie had a glimpse of a tall
| girl, princess-pale and princess-proud:
the Princess Giselle out of a fairy tale.

Miss Beulah said that you could
_always tell Negro blood no matter
how white the skin, because even a
\ drop of Negro blood produced blue
fingernails and a stripe running down
the spine. Sometimes Elberta’s finger-
nails did look a little blue, but at other
imes they did not, and Hallie could
3ee no black stripe appearing above

her dress in back. It was hard to re-
) member that Elberta was a Negro girl.

One Sunday after dinner a big black
car came around the corner. It slowed
| down in front of the house and at first
all that Hallie could see was an elbow
)stuck out the window. Then a head
ewith puffs of brown hair identical to
Virginia’s rose from behind the wheel,
then a face with round, high-colored
cheeks. A hand languidly waved. This
was May Belle Ballard, one of Vir-
ginia’s new friends.
) “Mamma, may I go riding with
May Belle?”’ asked Virginia.

IVI
UM Lamma flapped the Telegraph and

Munday afternoon should doom you
Ito hell’s fire,’ and then, as if she
ished she had not said exactly that,

fty-five.””

“Mamma,” complained Virginia,
tanding at the gate looking at Hallie,
ho had followed her down the steps.
“Aw, let her come,”’ said May Belle
enerously. “She can sit in back with
an.”

May Belle slung the car around the
rorner and Dan, a spotted hound dog,
lid over and put his head in Hallie’s
lap. They headed toward Main Street,
dassed the county jail where Margaret
Craig lived, passed the line of stores
With no one in view except Lucius
edbetter sitting on the bench in front
f Doc McGhee’s store. As they came
joward the depot Hallie apd. Virginia
ilunk down out of sight. Papa had
Biever said they could not go out driv-
ng on Sunday, but in his Sunday
peeches in church he referred to sin-
ers “carousing around in cars” on
unday, ‘frolicking around breaking
e Sabbath,” and laying themselves
)pen to temptations which he did not
ame directly but which Hallie sup-
osed must be drinking, gambling,
jancing and fornication. Better not
ip let him see them taking the first
tep, “carousing around in cars.”
® When they came to the school-

souse, Hallie leaned forward. “Where
oes the road go?” she asked. She
_notioned to the road which led past
re schoolhouse, through fields of
ellowing corn, and then vanished in
ne woods.

“There’s really nothing down
here,” said May Belle, “unless you
unt Magnolia Hall. You know Mr.
Villy Featherstone, lives with his sis-
r, Miss Beulah, catercorner to you

»lks? That’s his old home place.”
“Is it an old Southern house?”
ked Hallie, hope surging in her
som, and the vistas, the white
lumns, the special light that played
wn from an arching sky, came into
2r mind again. Montpelier.

“Yes’m,” said Elberta, “several of

“It’s a right pretty old place,” said May Belle,
“kind of a pretty old Southern house. Mr. Barks-
dale, he’s the one who owns the planing mill, he
moved here from Nerth Carolina, he bought it
and painted it up, fixed up the lawn and every-
thing. It might be fun to go down there.”

When they came up the hill and passed the
orchard they saw the house, saw its whiteness, its
columns, saw the huge magnolia trees. Two
white gateposts marked the driveway and May
Belle turned in between them so they could look

up the vista of trees and see the house standing
there, pure and white as a Greek temple.

**Montpelier,’ Hallie said.

“No, Magnolia Hall,” said May Belle. “Il
just go in a little way so you can see better. Mr.
Barksdale won’t care. He’s a very nice man,” said
May Belle, inching the car along the driveway.
““He’d just moved in here and got this place all
fixed up when his wife died.”

Was this where Mr. Barksdale with the crude
North Carolina accent lived? Hallie had never

iets)

suspected it, though Mr. Barksdale had given the
stained-glass window to the church, the Good
Samaritan window back of the choir. Under the
picture it said, “In Loving Memory, Adelaide
Wingate Barksdale, Friend to the Friendless.”

Does Mr. Barksdale live in this big old house
all by himself?” asked Virginia.

“He has a daughter, Miss Corrine Barksdale.
She’s real pretty. Just finished G.S.C.W. She’s
always off visiting up there in North Carolina
where they come from.”

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Just in front of the magnolias there was a
little white house. White birds flew straight up
from it, then veered and swerved as May Belle
backed and stalled.

‘How darling,” said Hallie.
ling little house.”

“That’s a dovecote,”’ said May Belle. “‘It
was here when Mr. Willy Featherstone was a
boy, I hear, maybe even when his father was a
boy. They say the dovecote’s old as the house.”

“T don’t see why Mr. Willy Featherstone
would want to leave a place like this,” said
Hallie, immediately picturing it as it must have
been in the old days, with gracious gentlemen
and ladies walking among the magnolias,
chatting to each other on intellectual subjects,
often breaking into Greek and Latin.

“Pa says Mr. Willy really hated to give it
up. His family used to keep white horses, too,”
said May Belle, and Hallie took the white
horses and fitted them immediately into her
dream; they pranced in the clover field there
beyond the magnolias, their pink nostrils
flaring, their hooves gleaming as black and
shiny as her patent-leather shoes just after
being rubbed with a biscuit.

‘““Maybe we ought to go on back now,” said
Virginia. “I didn’t hear the train whistle, but
it must be past time.”

May Belle slowed the car to a crawl in front
of Miss Lizzie Wallace’s boardinghouse, and
together she and Virginia said, ‘“*M-m-m-m?”
A young man was getting out of a car and as
they passed slowly they could see a flash of a
brown face, crisp curly hair.

“T guess Miss Lizzie’s
boarder,” said Virginia.

“T saw him first,’ said May Belle.

But Hallie dismissed him for all his rakish
good looks and thought of Mr. Willy Feather-
stone, born and brought up in Magnolia Hall,
the only Southern mansion in Greenwood, a
Southern mansion with a dovecote and mag-
nolia trees. Poor Mr. Willy Featherstone had
been dislodged by an interloper, Mr. Barks-
dale from North Carolina, who lived there
with his cold and haughty daughter, Miss
Corrine. Ah, we are alike, Mr. Willy Feather-
stone and I: both dislodged from our rightful
homes, I from Montpelier, years back, by the
war, and he, more recently, by some skuldug-
gery on the part of Mr. Barksdale. Mr. Barks-
dale had money; he could buy Magnolia Hall
and a stained-glass window for his wife, but
that did not mean he belonged in Magnolia
Hall.

The next day Hallie descended the tree and
followed Mr. Featherstone at a discreet dis-
tance. He passed out of sight around the
corner by McGhee’s drugstore and when she,
too, turned the corner a minute later she drew
up short because there was Mr. F. sitting ona
wooden bench in front of the drugstore.
Having seen him walk to town so purposefully,
she did not expect to see him sitting on the
bench. She halted for a minute scratching her
bare toes on the rough brick sidewalk, and
Mr. F. waved his arm. “‘Set.”’ he said. Hallie
sat, her bare feet folded under the bench, toes
seeking out the curved grooves in the bricks
of the sidewalk. Across the street the Con-
federate monument glinted in the bright sun.

“That’s my pa,” said Mr. F., looking in the
same direction.

“Sure enough,” Hallie said, trying not to
show the flutter of excitement she felt. This
fitted into the picture exactly. Oh, he did be-
long in Magnolia Hall. “I saw Mr. Barksdale’s
house, Magnolia Hall. last Sunday,” she said.
“Sure is a pretty old place.”

“Guess if you got the money you can have
pretty much what you want in this world,” he
said. ““You can come down in here, buy any-
thing you want, whether folks like it or not. If
you got the money ” He did not finish his
sentence, but drew his handkerchief out of his
pocket and wiped his mouth carefully. ““Well,”’
he said, standing, ‘guess I better get on about
my business.”’

“What a dar-

getting a new

‘
She stood, too, and walked out into the
bright street, across the tracks and highway to
the monument. The inscription on the marble

struck her with the force of a poem: ‘‘Feather-
stone Fusileers . In memoriam, heroes of
Plum Branch County, Fourth Regiment, First
Company, Featherstone Fusileers, Captain

W. B. Featherstone.”

She looked around to see if anyone was
watching, then wiped her eyes on the hem of
her dress. Heroes of the same breed as Paul
Revere, the Minute Men, Lancelot, Galahad,
Charlemagne, David fighting against Goli-
ath—and among these heroes in gray was the
father of Mr. Willy Featherstone. And Mr. F.
was now disbarred from Magnolia Hall, his
rightful place usurped by a rich man from
North Carolina. It was not fair, and her tears
flowed, and quickly she blew her nose.

Next morning, when Miss Beulah called at
the front door, ““Anybody home?” Hallie
looked at her with fresh eyes, trying to see the
white mansion and hero father reflected in her
too. Miss Beulah was short and almost square,
built a little like a bulldog, her head outthrust
on her short neck, her round face showing
some crisis of complexion long past, some
crisis that had left its impress of pockmarks
and crevices. (Mamma said pellagra.)

““Can’t stay more than a minute,” said Miss
Beulah, settling down in a rocker. “I’m on my
way down to Lizzie Wallace’s to see.how she
is this mornin’. She went ahead and took two.
There she is down there, alone in her house
with two of them. I declare, I just can’t see
how she can do it. Some mornin’ she’s goin’
to wake up and find out she’s’’—Miss Beulah
looked at Hallie and went on guardedly,
“she’s goin’ to wake up and find out she’s
shown mighty poor judgment.”

“Two what?’ asked mamma. Hallie con-
sidered Miss Beulah’s usual fears: snakes,
Negroes. It seemed unlikely that Miss Lizzie
Wallace would have two of either in her house
spending the night.

“Highway men,” exhaled Miss Beulah.
“Two of them fellows workin’ on that new
stretch of road up there near Verdery.”” Now

Life is a flower of which love is the honey.
VICTOR HUGO

Hallie remembered the young man getting out
of a car on Sunday when they were out riding
with May Belle Ballard. “‘She’s furnishin’
room and board. They got the same room Mr.
Jones had when he roomed down there. And
I just heard yestiddy that one of them is the
brother of that highway man ran off with
Mary Emily Cartledge.”

“Cartledge?”? said mamma. “Kin to Mr.
Shadrack Cartledge down at the cotton ware-
house?”

“That’s him,’ said Miss Beulah. “It was his
wife, Mary Emily, ran off with the highway
man. She’s sister to Miss Toulou Vass, plays
piano in church. She was Mary Emily Vass
before she was married to Shadrack, brought
up just as nice. I declare ——” Miss Beulah
shook her head.

“TI didn’t know Mr. Shadrack Cartledge
was married,” said mamma.

“Oh, yes, he was married, but I reckon he’s
divorced now,” said Miss Beulah. “‘Let’s see
now, it happened two, three summers ago,
long before you folks come. Shadrack Cart-
ledge went off fishin’ down to the Big Sandy.
He went off down there with two, three other
fellows; you know that crowd, do more
drinkin’ than fishin’. Jess Bailey’ (Mr. Jess
drinking?), “S. C. Vermillion, Sam Johnson.
He said he was goin’ to be gone several days
but the fishin’ trip was over sooner than they
expected, and when Shadrack come in the
front door and saw a man’s hat. he picked up
his shotgun off the hat rack and walked on out
to the bedroom and there was a man just
jumped out of bed’’—here Miss Beulah
leaned toward mamma and whispered, “buck
naked,” and rolled her eyes, her popped gray
eyes, milky as marbles. “Shadrack let fly at
that highway man just takin’ off across the
cotton patch, wearin’ nothin’ in the world
but his birthday suit.’’ She stopped for breath
and fanned herself with her straw hat as if the
telling had warmed her up.

“I declare,’ mamma said, laughing, but
more as if she enjoyed Miss Beulah’s telling
than as if she condoned the story. ““Did Mr.
Shadrack do anything to his wife?”

“Nieuw. Mary Emily was so mad at him
for comin’ back like that. She kept sayin’ to

him, or so I hear, ‘What you mean sneakin’
back out here before you said you was comin’?
I hate a man don’t stay away when he says he’s
goin’ to.’ She left him too.”

“Went off with the fellow got the bird-
shot?’ asked mamma.

““Nieuw’’—Miss Beulah pronounced no as
if she had learned it from a cat—‘‘oh, nieuw,
she went off with another highway man, man
named McClure, brother to this one I been
tellin’ you about, stayin’ down at Lizzie’s.
Frank, I think his name was. The one down
at Lizzie’s is Boyce—Boyce McClure.”

Elberta came to the door and said to
mamma, “You through with the breadboard,
Mrs. Jones?”

“Yes, Elberta. You can wash it now.”

Miss Beulah said to mamma in a low voice,
*“You ast her yet?”

“No.”

oe ‘

Dees from the Dewy Rose community just
like those two highway men.” Miss Beulah
jumped to her feet as if a rattlesnake had
slithered from beneath her rocking chair.
“Boyce McClure! Why, Boyce McClure is
brother of Frank and naturally that means he’s
ason of Wake McClure.’ Miss Beulah had a
look of horror on her face. She fanned herself
rapidly with her straw hat, then absent-
mindedly jammed it down on her head.
““Wouldn’ it be terrible— you know I never
did tell you who Elberta’s father is—but
wouldn’ it be terrible if one of his own
sons ———’’ She became even redder in the
face and moved toward the steps. She stopped
and looked hard at mamma again. “You sure
you didn’t ask her?”

“T figured it was none of my business,” said
mamma.

“Oh,” said Miss Beulah, “I really must
hurry. To think that one of Wake McClure’s
own sons might be the one.” She positively
moaned with horror (or pleasure).

What about Miss Beulah? Hallie climbed
to the tree house to try to fit her into Magnolia
Hall. She was not a Southern lady. Mamma
liked to hear her talk, but mamma thought she
was silly. She was not even as much of a South-
ern lady as mamma. Miss Beulah simply could
not have been born in Magnolia Hall, Hallie
decided. Perhaps she was adopted?

The next morning Hallie saw Mr. Jess Bai-
ley’s horse tied to the chinaberry tree in front
of his store. Her knees went soft; a curdling
took place in her stomach. Could this be the
day? She walked slowly, very slowly, stopped
and patted Lady, murmured to her, “Some-
day, someday,” hoping any minute to hear the
screen door open and a voice say, “Why,
there’s Hallie! Hey, Hallie, today’s the day.”
But there was not a sound from the store. She
moved on toward the post office and sat down
on the bench in front of it. From there she
could survey the street in both directions.

Miss Toulou Vass emerged suddenly from
the door of the cotton warehouse and came
toward the post office. She always wore full
middy blouses and pleated skirts (on Sundays
they were of silk), and from the front and
from a distance she looked like a girl in
school. Close up, however, her face, though it
was beautiful with its golden skin and downy
golden hairs and long golden lashes, was not
young. Did Miss Mary Emily Cartledge look
like her? No wonder the highway men and
Mr. Shadrack had loved her.

“Hey, Hallie,’ said Miss Toulou as she went
into the post office. She walked as light and
airy as if she were dancing to The Japanese
Sandman, one of her favorite tunes. She played
it as a marching song sometimes for the Sun-
day school. Once she had worked Ja-da into
the offertory—in a very slow and solemn way,
of course. Hallie liked the extra oompahs Miss
Toulou sometimes put in the bass, and the
way she played the second verse high up in the
treble to vary the effect.

Lucius Ledbetter came over and sat down
by Hallie on the bench. Lucius Ledbetter—
Loony Lucius, Benny called him—was no
stranger to her, although she had only

watched him from the tree as he rocked the
McGhee children, and wondered why they
loved him so. He had Santa Claus eyes, twin-
kling and merry, but bloodshot brown. He
gave her such deep, deep attention that she
turned away, embarrassed.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

She cast up and down the street for a topic—
toward the tracks, toward the depot, then in
the other direction . . . the Confederate monu-
ment.

“Mr. Willy Featherstone told me that was
his father,”’ she said.

Lucius Ledbetter laughed—hunched, choked
laughter that seemed squeezed out of him.
“Oh, said hit were his father. The old suck-
egg dog.”

“Who?” asked Hallie. Who could be a suck-
egg dog? Certainly not Mr. Willy Feather-
stone and certainly not Mr. Willy Feather-
stone’s heroic father.

*“He’s just a old scoundrel,” Lucius said,
“‘and, for that matter, so were his pa. Did you
climb up and see were there a toe missin’ on
the soldier? Cain’t be Cap’n Featherstone
ef’n there ain’t a toe missin’.”” He started his
giggling again.

*‘Was Captain Featherstone’s toe shot off
in the war?” asked Hallie. A toe might not be
as serious as an arm or a leg, but it would bea
great inconvenience.

“He says hit was shot off by a cannonball
in the First Battle of Manassas. . . he says.””

Hallie bridled at the tone. “It must’ve been
hard going all through the war, marching and
everything, with his toe missing.”

“Who says he went all th’u the war?” Lu-
cius Ledbetter laughed again. “He just barely
got up there where they was holdin’ the war,
just barely got there when along come this
here cannonball and taken off his big toe.
So he taken out for home.”

“Didn’t he go back again?” asked Hallie.
“Didn’t he go back to lead his men?”

““No’m, too fur. Besides, he were right busy
down here.”

“Well, why does it say ‘Captain of the
Featherstone Fusileers’?” asked Hallie, mo-
tioning toward the monument.

“Well’m, he left here cap’n and he come
back wounded and naturally was called cap’n
ever since.”

“What did his company do?” asked Hallie.
“Who led them?”

““My pa,” said Lucius, ““Lieutenant Lucius
Ledbetter, later on Cap’n Ledbetter.”

“Well, then,” said Hallie, feeling she had
him trapped now, “why didn’t they write
‘Ledbetter Fusileers’ on the monument?”

“I guess them as pays for a monument kin
write on it what they’s a mind to,” said Lu-
cius. “Them Daughters of the Confederacy
is just full of Featherstones. Hit don’t matter.
Pa just about killed anybody called him cap’n
after the war was over. Says he just never
wanted to hear war again.”

“T guess your father wasn’t wounded,”’ said
Hallie, feeling angry at Lucius and more angry
with his father.

*“No’m, he weren’t wounded but he said the
war sure made him sick. He useter say when I
was a boy hit made him sick unto death.”

Hallie felt her face turn red. “I don’t be-
lieve you,” she said, standing up. “I don’t
believe they’d put Captain Featherstone’s
name up there, above the writing and that
poem, unless he really was a hero.” She said
sternly, “I den’t think it’s true and I think
you're just jealous.”

X
ie turned and walked back the way she
had come. Her sandals felt hot on her feet,
and she unbuckled them and carried them in
one hand. Looking at her bare feet on the hot
sandy sidewalk, she thought it would be hard

for a cannonball to pick off just one toe. But:

she found it impossible to believe Lucius Led-
better. After all, he did not amount to any-
thing. As far as she could see, he did not work,
held no proper job. There was no reason to be-
lieve a man like that when it was his word
against Mr. Willy Featherstone who had come

AOI Il

from Magnolia Hall. «|

The first Sunday in September Margaret
Craig appeared at Sunday school after having

been away for weeks. She and Hallie walked —

out together.
“Are you going to be in eighth grade?”
Hallie asked Margaret.
**Uh-huh.”

Miss Toulou had begun a |

marching piece in the main part of the church.

“You going to take expression?”

CONTINUED ON PAGE 115

ssyucsiered with God back there benind the
pulpit and was still frowning from the sight. As
“he sat down in one of the carved chairs a
yyoung woman appeared in the doorway
across the church. Behind her was Mr. Barks-
dale. Could this be his daughter, Miss Corrine
Barksdale, that haughty, cold princess? Oh,
but she was pretty. And tiny. She hardly came
to her father’s shoulder, and she seemed
young and shy. Hallie could not help staring
‘at her. Miss Corrine Barksdale’s curly brown
shair escaped in little tendrils that framed her

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\ | > } n just takin’ off across the treble to vary the effect. The first Sunday in September Margaret F
\ . te / arin nothin in the world Lucius Ledbetter came over and sat down Craig appeared at Sunday school after havingre ‘
7 peo She stopped for breath by Hallie on the bench. Lucius Ledbetter— been away for weeks. She and Hallie walked")
& Pe f with her straw hat as if the Loony Lucius, Benny called him—was no _ out together We
' —— = with the od her up. stranger to her, although she had _ only “Are Soni in ei » Bk
eae : OP EI. ane ¢ ) re you going to be in eighth grade? 4
MOST OE FU Cees Spe pe from the tree as he rocked the Hallie asked Margaret. "7
( e I / Ss > 2 > y ~ vad > re © I are ] } ay aay ” = .
ver 1) ae ais Je oe ae pe fe Childsen) 9206 wondered why they Uh-huh.” Miss Toulou had begun a jy
doned the story. id Mr. loved him so. He had Santa Claus eyes, twin- _ marching piece in the main part of the church. ‘} ,
thing to his wife? kling and merry, but bloodshot brown. He ‘You going to take expression?”

Emily was so mad at him gave her such deep, deep attention that she
3 a like that. She kept sayin’ to turned away, embarrassed. CONTINUED ON PAGE 115

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 112

“1 don’t know. Are you?”

“TI always take expression.”’ said Margaret.

“Who do you take it from?” asked Hallie.

“T take it from Cousin Bootsie Craig,” said
Margaret, “but I hear maybe Miss Corrine
Barksdale’s going to teach, although Cousin
Bootsie says she’s very inexperienced.”

Miss Corrine Barksdale, that haughty crea-
ture who lived in Magnolia Hall! Though Hal-
lie had never seen her, she knew she would
not like her. She would be tall and cold, her
breath would smell and her voice would
squeak. It was quite unlikely that anyone
would want to take expression from her.

“Did you have a good time out in the coun-
try—where was it, with your aunt?”

“Aunt Lucy Willis,” Margaret said. “It’s
kind of boring down in the country. But
mamma always wants us to visit around in the
summers. What you been up to?”

Hallie said tentatively, “You know Mr.
Willy Featherstone?”

*“°’Course I know Cousin Willy Feather-
stone,’ said Margaret. ““He’s kin to us, I
reckon. Some kind of kin.”

May Belle Ballard took us down to see his
old home place one Sunday.”

“T just love Magnolia Hall,” said Margaret,
“now that Mr. Barksdale has fixed it up. Of
course all those big magnolia trees were there
already and the house itself, but he painted it
up and fixed the lawn and now it seems like a
different place. It’s the best one now. That old
run-down Ledbetter place on the Big Sandy,
down near Tranquil Church, it’s too spooky.
It's the most ha’nted-looking place I evei
saw.’ And Margaret gave a shiver.

“Which Ledbetter is that?’ Hallie asked
carefully and slowly. “You don’t mean Lucius
Ledbetter you always see hanging around
town?”

“Uh-huh, Loony Lucius. He came from
down in there. But there’s Duckets in it now,
sort of roosting in it, papa says. The house is
about to fall in on top of them, I reckon. But
that’s where old Lucius was born, and his
brothers.”

“Brothers?”

“Mr. River Ledbetter. He lives out with the
Fitzgeralds—you know Laura Fitzgerald.
Well, Mr. River Ledbetter stays out there and
helps Mr. Fitzgerald someway. And then
there’s Mr. Byrd Ledbetter. He lives up in At-
lanta, and papa says he’s doing right well. Papa
says he’s got more git-up-and-go than the
other Ledbetter boys.”

This news about the Ledbetter house was
unpleasant. The house might be old and run-
down and even haunted, but if it were an old
Southern mansion, then Lucius Ledbetter
would have to be given more respect.

Hallie thought of tomorrow, when she
would go into the eighth grade. High school.
Her new teachers would-be in church today
and they would see her and perhaps they
would say as they went home, “Did you see
that dark-eyed child in the dark blue taffeta?
She looks so bright.”

Mr. Jess Bailey took his place in the choir,
and his sister, Miss Annie Laurie Jones, Es-
sie’s mother, sat next to him. Two young
women came in looking dressed up and hot in

) wine-colored fall suits, wearing wine-colored

gloves. Teachers. The younger children in
front turned around and stared.

Miss Toulou Vass was playing a little wan-
dering piece that she seemed to be making up
as she went along. Now she brought it to an
end with several crashing chords, and Brother
_ Jamieson came out from the little door at one
side of the baptistery. He always entered very
solemnly and unsmilingly, as if he had been
sequestered with God back there behind the
pulpit and was still frowning from the sight. As
he sat down in one of the carved chairs a
young woman appeared in the doorway
across the church. Behind her was Mr. Barks-
dale. Could this be his daughter, Miss Corrine
Barksdale, that haughty, cold princess? Oh,
but she was pretty. And tiny. She hardly came
to her father’s “shoulder, and she seemed
' young and shy. Hallie could not help staring
' at her. Miss Corrine Barksdale’s curly brown
hair escaped in little tendrils that framed her

face. Her brown fall hat left a knot of hair
exposed and from it hung three perfect little
curls. Hallie fingered her own tight braids and
wondered.

Brother Jamieson announced the first hymn,
Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus, and Hallie
could hear Mr. Jess Bailey’s tenor climbing
high and sweet. She could look up and admire
him as he sang, and sometimes when he saw
her watching him his sky-blue gaze crinkled
into a smile and the dimples in his cheeks
appeared briefly.

Standing there now singing about being a
soldier of the cross, his blond hair curled
crisply across his forehead, he was even more
like Galahad ready to search out the Grail.
Thinking of Mr. Jess Bailey intent on his holy
mission, she thought she would have to stop
her wanton dream of riding on the horse in
front of him, his arms encircling her to hold
her on the horse, his breath blowing the hairs
gently on the back of her neck.

“Let us pray,” said Brother Jamieson, hold-
ing his arm out over the congregation. Hallie
had found that during prayer was a good time
to feast her eyes on Mr. Jess Bailey. As she
looked up now she saw that Mr. Jess Bailey
was sitting there as if ie were the one feasting
his eyes, looking at the top of Miss Corrine
Barksdale’s bowed head. He looked and
looked so intently that when Miss Corrine
straightened up Hallie expected her to look
full into Mr. Jess Bailey’s face, but Miss Cor-
rine suddenly lowered her lashes as if she were
determined to be more reverent. Hallie closed
her eyes. She was not going to like Miss Cor-
rine Barksdale. It was not fair. Miss Corrine
had everything. She was far prettier than any
of the other teachers who had come in before
her. She wore prettier clothes. No one had
curls like hers, or such a sweet air. And she
had Magnolia Hall, the finest Southern house
anywhere around.

The whole school fell in love with Miss Cor-
rine Barksdale. Mr. Holden introduced her at
morning assembly and she gave a demonstra-
tion of her work, some lines from Shakespeare,
which she said very simply without waving
her arms at all. Then she gave a little talk
about how much expression was needed in

everyday life. “I teach expression,” she said,
“not elocution.”

Virginia mentioned Miss Corrine immedi-
ately at supper and said she would like to take
expression.

“IT think they should both take it,” said
mamma. Mamma would often talk about how
they were all on the verge of bankruptcy, but
when it came time to take lessons she seemed
to forget it.

“Vd rather take music lessons,” said Hallie.
She would not let herself be carried away by
Miss Corrine’s sweet manner and her pretty
curls.

“Mr. Barksdale’s mighty nice to me down
at the depot,” said papa. ““He went to the trou-
ble to write the superintendent up in Macon
that he’d got a lot better service since I’d been
down here. I appreciated that.”

“Then why can’t Hallie take both music and
expression?”’ asked mamma. ‘“She’s got all
the time in the world. It seems to me if a
child’s ambitious to learn music she ought to
be encouraged.”

The next day Hallie made a trip to the cot-
ton warehouse, to ask Miss Toulou if she
would teach her music. Miss Toulou seemed
so pleased that little drops of perspiration
sprang out around her nose.

“Why, honey,” she said, “I’m real proud
you asked me. But wouldn’t you rather learn
guitar or uke? I’m taking a course up in Ma-
con and I could teach you everything I
learned.”

Hallie stood in the doorway and consid-
ered. She could not erase the picture of her-
self playing a rosewood piano with candles
lighting her face.

“I've always liked the piano best,” she said
So Miss Toulou agreed to come to her house
and teach her every Tuesday.

At her first expression lesson Hallie was
cool and distant with Miss Corrine. But Miss
Corrine came up to her as if she had been wait-
ing all day for her.

“Hallie honey, I’m so glad you decided to
study with me. Why, that first Sunday I saw
you in church I said to myself, ‘Who is that
child with the lovely, sensitive face?’ And |
said then, “1 hope I have a chance to teach
her.’ And here you are,” and Miss Corrine

NEXT MONTH

WHAT HAS YOUR AGE TO DO WITH BUYING A HOUSE?

More than you may think. Most home buyers in the U.S. (60 percent
of new homes and 55 of existing homes) were under 35 last year. What
do these young people say about borrowing money? What are their big-
gest complaints? Who mows the lawn? Read the answers in the Jour-
nal’s study-in-depth by Dr. George Gallup of ““The Woman’s Mind.”

Part four.

THE LETTER THAT PREVENTED A DIVORCE

“I just had to tell somebody,” the letter which was addressed to Dr.
Clifford Adams began. Dr. Adams cites it to show how even serious
conflicts in marriage may be resolved this side of the divorce courts.
“Letters That Never Get Mailed.”

HELPING YOUNG ADOLESCENTS
TO UNDERSTAND THE FACTS OF LIFE
Dr. Benjamin Spock considers the conflicts and uncertainties of boys

and girls in those difficult years, 13, 14 and 15. He gives direct answers
to these young people. And to their parents too.

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LOOKING LIKE A WOMAN!

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£15

stood poised on her high heels, her brown eyes
warm with welcome, her mouth a little large for
her face, giving her a humorous look, and
Hallie’s stiff posture, her determination to show
her that someone in this town had standards,
that someone was not so easily taken in by her
airs, that she, Hallie. . . why, suddenly it all
melted away and she stood there loving Miss
Corrine.

One day in September Laura Fitzgerald
said, ““Ask your mamma if you can come
spend the night Friday night and we'll eat
scuppernongs.”

They sat on the front seat of the bus Friday
afternoon as it took the road out toward
Antreville. After a while it pulled over to the
side of the road before a square warehousy
kind of store. ‘Here we are,” said Laura.
Over the porch steps of the store was a sign
that said “Fitzgerald and Sons.”

“There’s daddy now,”’ said Laura, “on the
porch.”’ They went on past the store toward a
square house with a big porch across the
front. The porch was held up by four round
unfluted columns, but they had been tacked on
as an afterthought.

-
ees entered a fenced-in yard and a wizened
little man waved to them from a rocking chair.
A long lanky figure was stretched out on the
steps, a Daniel Boone kind of man, thought
Hallie. The little old man rose from the rock-
ing chair, and Laura greeted him as if she were
returning from a trip away, not just from
school. Then he leaned his wrinkled face with
small tobacco-brown eyes toward Hallie.

“Two Southern belles,’ he whinnied.
“River, ain’t often you git a chancet to have
two Southern beauties like this to squire
around.”

This must be River Ledbetter, born in a
Southern mansion, the Ledbetter old home
place. River did not rise from his.lolling posi-
tion. “Sho ain’t,” he said agreeably.

They entered a bare unpainted hall with a
stairway in back and Mrs. Fitzgerald came
out of a back room and stood hesitantly at the
door. ““Mamma,” said Laura, throwing her
books down on the table. “Come on, let’s go
eat scuppernongs.” Hallie ducked a little
bow toward Mrs. Fitzgerald and followed
Laura. She came out onto the back porch, and
there was the scuppernong arbor, a magnifi-
cent generous arbor, old and tangled with
vines as thick as arms growing up the posts
and spreading out over the chicken-wire top.

“Climb up here,” called Laura. “Stop look-
ing and eat.”

She followed Laura up the vine on one of
the supporting posts and worked her way out
on a crosspiece, cradling her feet in vines and
lying along the beam as if at a Roman feast.
She popped the scuppernongs into her mouth
and spit the skins through an open place in
the vines to the chickens below. All afternoon
they lay there, only moving a foot or two to
find a more easily reached supply of scupper-
nongs.

Toward dark a colored woman stuck her
head out the window and called to them,
“You chillun get down. We gonta eat.” Even
then Hallie could not resist taking a few last
scuppernongs.

The dining room was small, the chairs
bumping into the sideboard when they were
pulled out from the table. Mrs. Fitzgerald sat
on the edge of her chair, nervously twitching a
fishing pole with shredded paper to shoo away
the flies. The colored woman appeared with a
large plate of fried chicken. The table was al-
ready loaded with food—sliced ham, sweet
potatoes running with sugary, buttery juice, a
mound of rice, black-eyed peas with pot liquor,
and pickled peaches.

“Sugar, what you want, a pully bone?”
asked Mr. Fitzgerald, forking over the crisp
brown pieces of chicken.

“Yes, sir, a pully bone, thank you,” said Hal-
lie, hoping it was a very small fryer and trying
to avert her eyes from all the food on the
table. Her belly filled with scuppernongs
pressed against her skirt belt, and scupper-
nongs seemed to be stacked up all the way
through her chest and into her throat.

“We're not much hungry, daddy,” said
Laura. ““We just ate us a bait of scupper-
nongs.”

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“Scuppernongs ain’t nothing,” said Mr.
Fitzgerald, “just juice. Miss Martha Nelle,”
he said, addressing his wife for the first time,
“git some hot biscuits and jelly for these little
gals.”

The rich smell of fruitcake hung over the
room, but when dessert finally came it was
not fruitcake but ambrosia. Hallie’s head felt
dizzy and for a minute she thought she might
be sick. But just then there was a scraping of
chairs, and they moved out into the open airi-
ness of the hall.

Laura said to Hallie, “‘Let’s go out and talk
to River.”

River was lolling on the steps. Dogs lay ar-
ranged around him. Laura said, “Shoo,” and
the dogs moved, but only closer to River, and
the girls sat down on the steps. River said
nothing in welcome, but he did not look inter-
rupted. There was a faint suspicion of chill in
the air; a new season was being hinted at.

“River, can’t you tell me and Hallie a
story ?”’ asked Laura.

“*Eraid I don’t know a story,” said River,
moving a dog to scratch himself.

‘**A love story,” said Laura. “Tell us a love
story,”’ she said, and jabbed Hallie in the ribs
so that she could enjoy the teasing.

“Tell us about when you lived in your house
down on the Big Sandy,” said Hallie.

River twisted on the steps like one of his
dogs bothered by fleas. When he spoke his
voice seemed rusty from lack of The
words came slowly and he would stop and dig
his hands deep in his pockets as if he expected
to bring out the right word from down in there.

“Well’m, hit weren’t exactly a love story
mamma used to tell or get pa to tell. Hit were
about her and pa. She used to say to pa, “Lu-
cius, tell the boys about when you first seen
me.’ That was the way hit’d begin.”

“Did the story begin with the war?” asked
Hallie, thinking River might be like his father
and need encouragement.

“Pa never did like to talk about the war.
Anyways, this were when the war were over.”
River squirmed and changed his legs, his left
pulled up and the right one down. “He were
comin’ back from the war and saying to his-
self he don’t need to hurry home, his mamma
were dead, his pa had died whilst he was
away, he seen his brother killed up there in the
war, ain’t nothin’ callin’ for him to come
home. He says he just might’s well look at the
mountains. He come all the way up to the top
of the mountains and started down again
and he reckoned he were back in Georgia
when one day he passed a chile sittin’ on the
side of the road cryin’. That’s what he always
said—‘I passed this chile with her apron over
her face, cryin’ her heart out.’ He ast her what
were the trouble and she says her pa done fell
down and hurt hisself and he’s too big for her
to lift back in the cabin. Pa ast her how long
her pa been layin’ there and she says she
thinks hit were the day before yestiddy. Any-
ways, pa made her lead him back to her pa
and hit were true, he were dead, layin’ there
where the tree caught him. Pa just dug him a
grave right there and laid him in it. Then he
ast this chile where were her mamma and her
other relations. Her mamma had died two-
three years before. Pa always said when he
told us this, ‘I kep’ wonderin’ who were goin’
to look after this chile, mamma bein’ dead
and all,’ but then he thinks maybe Adam, he
were a slave they had had before the war, he
thinks maybe Adam and his wife Hattie if
they’re still around might look after this chile
for him. So he puts her up on her mule, her
face all swelled up from cryin’, he says he ain’t
rightly had a good look at her because of her
cryin’. He put her up on the mule—that was
all that was left alive except for the chickens—
and at the last minute this chile jumped down
and ran and got a rooster and said he were her
pet and she were goin’ to take him too.”

use.

Rive stopped and laughed. “I vow hit
must have been a sight, that little chile sittin’
ona mule and carryin’ a rooster. They started
walkin’ down the mountain, pa leadin’ the
mule, and he says comin’ down the mountain
the dogwood had come out and lay like snow
in the woods, and the redbud were showin’.
The weather got warmer in the daytime; hit
were still a little cool at night. And walkin’
down the mountain pa says he begun to feel

Ba FOO ee PE Oe ee ee

maybe he had a reason to come home, he were
bringin’ somethin’ back besides his mean old
thoughts. And that little chile he were talkin’
about, why by the time she reached Macon
she were singin’. Just ridin’ along on that mule
and holdin’ the rooster and singin’.”

Here River stopped his story as if in con-
templation of the picture.

“How old was she?” asked Laura.

“She weren’t no child.”’ River laughed as if he
had managed to fool them. “Hit’s a fact she
were little, a skinny girl, I reckon, but she were
about seventeen. When pa would get to the
part about her sittin’ on the mule and singin’,
mamma would always say, “Tell the boys
about you singin’ too, Lucius,’ and pa would
kind of grin and he always said, ‘I outdone
the rooster and the mule.”

“Did they get married,” asked Laura deter-
minedly, “‘and live happily ever after?”

“Well’m, now, I reckon you might say so.
Mamma says once she had just about every-
thing she wanted. So I reckon you’d say she
lived happily ever after.”

All the stars had come out now and hung
low in the sky. There was no moon and dark-
ness was thick under the trees. The dogs
moved restlessly; one whined and tried to run
in its sleep. Hallie thought of the Ledbetter
old home place down near Tranquil Church,
full of ha’nts, Margaret Craig said, and won-
dered if the ha’nts were the “little chile” who
came down from the mountains and her sol-

Keep your fears to yourself, but share
your courage with others.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

dier husband. The story moved her as she was
sometimes moved by a ballad or a hymn;
dampness sprang to her eyes.

She said now, feeling the silence too sad to
keep, “Do any of your family live down in
there now, River?”

“No’m, they ain’t any Ledbetters down
there now except them in Tranquil church-
yard. House is full of Duckets,” he said, and
spit into the bushes along the steps.

“Did you sell out to the Duckets?” asked
Hallie. Laura had heard her love story and
was lying back satisfied.

“Well’m, I didn’t exactly sell out to the
Duckets. After mamma died and the place
were so run-down, the sheriff come down in
there and says he’s going to take hit for taxes.
Finely I says go ahead and I moved on up here
with the Fitzgeralds. They’d been after me to
come on up here.”

“Did the Duckets buy it?” persisted Hallie.

“No’m, them Duckets don’t own no land.
They was just brought down in here by Mr.
Barksdale, runnin’ around the country cuttin’
down all the trees. I heard they’d ’a’ starved to
death if Mr. Barksdale hadn’t brought them
down here. Now the county’s as full of Duck-
ets as a dog is fleas. No’m, hit happened when
the sheriff finely put hit up for sale there
weren’t anybody fallin’ over hisself to buy it.
Finely Adam Lincoln, works down at the de-
pot, he come in and put down the money. He
Owns it now.”

“Adam?” said Hallie.

“Yes’m, and then Mr. Barksdale rented hit
for the Duckets. I were down there the other
day, huntin’. I ast for a drink of water, like I
never been round the place before. Mamma
would turn over in her grave if she could see
what they done to her kitchen. Hit’s papered
with funny papers like a darky’s house.”

Later, in bed, Hallie asked Laura, “Is River
a relative of yours?”

“Maybe a little bit, second cousin once re-
moved or something. Not close. But all the
Ledbetters are kin to everybody in the county.”

“His brother is Lucius Ledbetter up in
town?” She knew it but did not want to be-
lieve it. Now that she had heard River’s story
and about the Ledbetter old home place, she
could not refer to him as Loony Lucius.

“Uh-huh, and Byrd Ledbetter, his brother,
lives up in Atlanta. He’s doing right well,
daddy says.”

Hallie thought again how River looked like
Daniel Boone—brown, lanky, with a face that

+-*

ARCH, 1962

irried secrets of the dark woods and
imals. River was not the kind of
an she expected to find coming from
y old Southern mansion, but she
«ed him, she could not help liking
m. At least he was a great improve-
ent over his brother Lucius.

Both Hallie and Virginia dressed
‘ore particularly the day they were
ying to tea at Magnolia Hall. They
aited outside school for Miss Cor-
he and walked with her to the park-
g lot where she kept her car. The
jite pigeons flew up from the dove-
te as they turned into the driveway.
Jon’t you love that old dovecote?”
‘iss Corrine said. “Mother thought
} would be beautiful with white pi-
ons in it to match the house, so she
‘tit fixed up and then father ordered
2 pigeons. She hardly lived long
tough to see them. Now father
‘yuldn’t take anything for that dove-
‘te. He says the sight of those pi-
Hons flying up is the most beautiful
) ht in the world to him.”’ Then, as if
lixing them truly to heart, she said,
Fou know, for a long time I could
irdly bear to drive up this driveway
ied see them. So I just stayed away up
North Carolina, visiting my aunts.
Tw I really am in love with this old
Mice.”
Could the change have come be-
Kise she was “in love’? She never
Tntioned Mr. Jess Bailey, but it was
‘fectly obvious that they were going
‘ether. He had prevailed upon Miss
‘rrine to sit in the choir though she
gled and said she could hardly
@ry a tune. But they sat there side by
2 each Sunday now, sharing the
ne songbook.

| iss Corrine stopped the car in
Hint of the steps and they walked up
Bo the big white porch and entered
wide dark hall. A stairway curved
hy at the end, waiting for a bride
h a train to descend. They turned
) the living room and Miss Corrine
ippeared to talk to the cook in the
shen. Soon the cook came, wearing
ig white apron, her head wrapped
white turban, bearing a silver tea
and tiny flowered cups. Miss Cor-
: pulled a chair up to the table and
there like a small girl having a tea
ty. Hallie was not used to hot tea.
sipped hastily and put the cup
m quickly for fear that it would
th from her hands. Miss Corrine
red them tea cakes from a cut-
s dish.
Oh, Miss Corrine,” said Virginia,
ing her voice, “this is the prettiest
i."
lt is a beautiful room,” said. Miss
rine. ‘““Mother was awfully good
xing up houses. I didn’t see it be-
it was painted, I was still in school
in North Carolina. Then father
ight I should go over to G.S.C.W.
2we were going to livein Georgia.”
IS.S.C.W. is a very fine school,”
Virginia.
Dh, it is,” said Miss Corrine, “but
nted to go on. I even sent off for a
imbia University catalog.” She
le a little face, as if to say it was a
thing to do. “But I’d settle for the
versity of North Carolina. I still
ld like to go somewhere. There’s
tuch still to learn.’ And this time
made a gesture with her hands,
‘ing them out toward the world,
hing at herself at the same time.
Hien perhaps she was not in love
Mr. Jess Bailey. Perhaps she just
with him this year for company
next year she would go away.
Ric wanted her to go and to stay.
}ather was so lonely,” Miss Cor-
Bsaid. ‘I felt I just had to stay
) him this year.”
iss Corrine seemed to be so much
me, as if all this lovely furniture,

the silver tea service, the red rug, the cook in a
white turban, the silver card tray—all the splendid
setting of Magnolia Hall—were her accustomed
environment. She belonged in Magnolia Hall,
Hallie thought painfully, painfully because she
had thought the opposite so hard.

Later, of course, Miss Corrine invited the other
members of the class to tea. But Hallie and Vir-
ginia were the first and Hallie knew that Miss
Corrine had talked to them in a way she had not
talked to the others.

Now that she had visited Magnolia Hall she
wanted more than ever to see the old Ledbetter
place. River and his love story floated into and
out of her mind like a ballad. But November
came and still Hallie had not had a chance to
Visit it. The mornings were cooler and the pecans
were dropping in the yard when Margaret Craig
called in the back door, ‘Papa has to go down to
Tranquil today. Says he’ll carry us if we’ll hurry.”

They drove past the stores and the schoolhouse
with its Saturday-morning loneliness, past corn-

stalks standing in the field, and dipped down
toward the branch before Magnolia Hall. In the
pasture beyond the house where white horses
used to prance in the heyday of Magnolia Hall
five or six black-and-white cows were grazing
now.

““Where’d all the horses go they used to keep
down at Magnolia Hall?” asked Margaret. “Did
they all get sold?”

“That was all so long ago,” Mr. Craig said.
“It was in the time of Cap’n Willy Featherstone;

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he went up to the war and come right home.
Seems that he got little injury up
there.’ Mr. Craig grinned. “He got some little
injury up there and he come on home and
pretty soon he was hobblin’ round the country
buyin’ up horses. Most ladies couldn’t plow
or make feed and the horses got bony and
they was right glad to sell them off to Cap’n
Willy Featherstone cheap. Then Cap’n Willy
would take them in a big string up there to
North Georgia and sell them to the army. He
kept some of the best ones, the prettiest ones,
for breedin’ and when the fellows come home
from the war, them that did, and they didn’t
have a horse, why they had to go to Cap’n
Willy to buy one. Nobody else around here
had horses.”

“T reckon the South was glad they could get
horses somewhere, Mr Craig,” said Hallie,
seeking to find excuses for Captain Feather-
stone. She could not give up the hero on the
statue easily.

“That’s exactly what old Cap’n Willy used
to say. He just did his duty furnishin’ the
South with horses.”

Hallie had a feeling of guilt. Mr. Craig was
saying the same thing Lucius had said, except
that Lucius had not told her the whole story.
And because Lucius was poor and old and had
no standing she had not believed him.

some

| hey had reached the dark woods now and
the red road tilted down. Up the hill on the
other side, a Negro house sat alone in a cotton
field. The smoke stood straight up in the still,
chill air.

“I imagine they’s hog-killin’,’ said Mr.
Craig, turning off into the rutted road that
ran across the fields to the Negro cabin. He
parked under an oak near a small runabout
Ford.

In the backyard Adam Lincoln from the
depot was shaving the pink carcass of a hog
stretched between two posts. He laid down his
knife and came over to the car.

“How you, Mr. Craig, how you all?” He
peered into the car and added, “There’s Hallie
in there too. How you today?”

Mr. Craig said, ‘Fine, fine. Everything all
right down in here, Adam? All these your
children?”

“No, sir, Mr. Craig, you know these ain’t
my children. These my grandchildren. They
keep Mary company whilst I’m up in Green-
wood at the depot. Their papa’s gone to Dee-
troit.”

“Looks like a pretty good hog you got
there,” said Mr. Craig. ‘““‘They’s nothing like a
nice fat pig when the weather cools off.”

“Yessir, he’s nice and plump. Mary really
knows how to raise pigs.”

“They’s just nothing like it,’ said Mr.
Craig, ‘‘a little fresh pork or sausage for break-
fast. Or hog liver,’ he added.

“If’n I had something to put it in I could
give you a piece of the liver,’ said Adam.

Mr. Craig leaned over to the back seat and
felt around on the floor of the car amcnz the
guns and handcuffs and chains and rusty
wrenches and came up with a tin pan.

“‘Just lay it in there,” he said.

Adam went away and came back with the
pan covered with a piece of newspaper.

‘Put this back there on the seat with you,”
said Mr. Craig, starting up his motor again.
“Well, just stopped by to see how you all were
gettin’ on,”’ he said to Adam. “‘Got to get on
down in the country on some business.”

“‘Did Adam used to work for the Ledbet-
ters?’ asked Hallie. She was remembering
that when Lieutenant Ledbetter came home
from the war with his bride he hoped that
Adam would still be there.

“Yeah, they’re Ledbetter darkies. His pa
was named Adam Lincoln before him; he was
freed by old Mr. Ledbetter when he come
home from the war. He freed him and give
him fifty acres. Well, the family’s done right

well. Adam Lincoln is gettin’ on to be one of

the richest men, black or white, in Plum
Branch County. I can’t say it was exactly hard
work, though both this Adam and his pa be-
fore him were right hard workers. It was more
like luck. When the old Ledbetter place was
up for taxes, ain’t more than a few years back,
nobody would consider buyin’ it. Adam

walked up and he plunked down around seven
hundred dollars in cash—that’s what they
were askin’.” Mr. Craig leaned back and
laughed. “He hadn’ no more’n bought it than
here come Mr. Barksdale from up there in
North Carolina. Come down here and built a
planin’ mill and all them Duckets come along
to run the sawmills and what with those
swampy woods near the river and that new
growth of pine that old fellow’s really been
rakin’ it in. I wisht I had his bank account.”

N | argaret Craig said, ‘““Here’s the road down
to the old Ledbetter place. Even the road
down here is spooky.” She shivered as they
moved deeper into the shade of the woods.
Soon light shone up ahead and they came out
into a clearing behind a house. A barn tipped
crazily toward the woods as if it longed to
lean over and join the trees. Pigpens and
smokehouse stood up straighter, but they too
were in need of props. As they came into the
yard they could see that hog-killing was going
on here too.

“Well. if hit ain’t the sher’f,” said a hearty
voice. This was Mr. Ray Ducket. “Sugar, this
here’s the sher’f.”

“Proud to meet you,” said Mrs. Ray
Ducket, spitting expertly over the banisters.
““Won’t you all come in and set by the far?”

““No’m,” said Mr. Craig, “we can’t stay
long. Just come by to talk to your old man a
little and see how you folks gettin’ on down
here in the country.”

The little Duckets, who had been standing
there on bare blue feet staring at the new-
comers, shuffled uneasily as if something
might be expected of them.

“Go git some of your play-pretties,”” said
Mr. Ray Ducket to the oldest child, a little
girl with stringy brown hair. “This here’s
Darleen and this here’s Ray Junior—we just
call him Junior—and Delta, Paul and Wood-
ruff.”

Hallie walked toward the front of the house.
After all, she had come to see the house, not
the Duckets. Darleen trailed along with her.

“What you starin’ at?” asked Darleen.

LADIES' HOME JOURNAL

“Tm just looking at your house,” said!
Hallie. It was exactly like Magnolia Hall—
same Six square columns, same balcony over:
the door, same wide expanse of veranda—and_
yet not the same, as in a horrible before-and-|
after picture. The fanlight over the door had)
cardboard in two panes and a pillow in an-
other one; the veranda steps sagged danger-]
ously. How sad, how sad to see an old house
falling into decay.

“Didn’t they ever have a name for this)
house?” she asked Margaret Craig, who had)
come up and stood by her.

“‘Ledbetter’s old home place is all I ever}
heard,” said Margaret. “Look at that old red}
river. You go in washing much down here?’ })
she asked Darleen.

““No’m,” said Darleen.
down there.” ,

Over to one side the children had a tage
swing hanging from a water oak. River mus}/
have sat under that tree in summer surrounded)
by his dogs. Lucius with his crawfish walk hac
gone up and down those steps, sat rocking o1
that porch. Now he looked the way the housi
looked. It sagged and he sagged. But someon:
might still save it; oh, it could be saved, shi
thought, straightening the house, painting it]
cutting the clearing between house and rive}
to make a sweep of lawn, perhaps installing 4}
dovecote. What about Byrd who had done si!
well off there in Atlanta? Wouldn’t he com
back and save the house if he only knew? |

“You children come on now. We got to b}}’
gettin’ on home,” called Mr. Craig. “Come of!
up to see us when you come to town,” he sai
to Mr. Ray Ducket. |:

“Tl bring you up some sausage when m'/jf\
old lady gets hit made.” Mr. Ray Duck#
stood by the car with one foot on the runnir}}#
board, loath to let them go.

As they went back down the dark roa)
through the woods Hallie thought sudden’
of the reason for their trip. “Did he find o1
about the criminal?” |

“Oh, him,” said Mr. Craig. ““That’s right.)
spoke to Mr. Ray Ducket about him. Ff‘
thinks he’s lit out for Macon.” Mr. Craipir

“They’s snakes})
a

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°
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Bi

MARCH, 1962

drove along silently for a while, then said,
**And besides, it was a good day for hog-
killin’.”’

One day when mamma had gone on an
errand Hallie asked Elberta if she knew Boyce
McClure, from the Dewy Rose community.
She watched Elberta closely as she asked the
question, waiting for some telltale blush to
sweep up from her neck. Elberta was ironing;
she stopped and stood very still, lashes
lowered on her cheeks, her hand on the iron.
“McClure? I hearn tell of McClures down in
there.’’ Hallie could see no blush. “What did
you say his name was?”

““Boyce,”’ said Hallie.

“Well’m, I ain’t right sure,” said Elberta.
She looked uncomfortable, but there did not
seem to be any more questions to ask. Hallie
was glad that mamma had not been around to
hear her. Mamma could not stand prying,
even though she might like to know herself.

May Belle and Virginia talked about Boyce
McClure constantly, but Boyce’s schedule
made him as distant and unattainable to one

| as to the other. He left Miss Lizzie’s house on
a highway truck early in the morning and
came back late in the afternoon. On Saturdays
he would find neighbors up from Dewy Rose
doing their weekly trading and would catch a
ride with them back home. This Saturday-
snight disappearance was of great concern to
| Virginia and May Belle. Did he go home to see
\his mother, or did some Dewy Rose siren lure
him back?

In December Virginia began a new piece in
expression, The Highwayman, by Alfred
Noyes. For a long time she insisted on calling
jit The Highway Man, but Miss Corrine was
\very firm about accenting words.

“The wind was a torrent of darkness among
the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly
walleon tossed upon cloudy seas,’ intoned
: irginia, looking at herself in the mirror
jenunciating the d in wind and the 7 in galleon
as Miss Corrine had taught her to do.

“Why don’t you ask Boyce McClure to
ome to B.Y.P.U. Sunday night?’ asked

————— OOOO OE el

3 .
= 2

Hallie one day when she caught Virginia
practicing her piece in front of the mirror.

“Oh,” said Virginia. She leaned against the
bureau looking at herself thoughtfully. ‘I
don’t think I could all by myself,’ she said
finally.

“IT could go along just to keep you com-
pany,” said Hallie.

“You can come if you want to,” said Vir-
ginia, not looking at her and seeming not to
care whether she did or not. “Please wear
something besides that filthy skirt if you’re
coming.”

Miss Lizzie Wallace came to the door and
said, ““Come right in, girls. Aren’t you good
girls to come call on an old lady?”

That was not what Hallie expected her to
say and she looked to Virginia to set Miss
Lizzie straight. But Virginia just stood there
with her whole face suffused with pink.
Finally Hallie said, ‘““Well, Miss Lizzie, Vir-
ginia and I have a message from the B.Y.P.U.
for Boyce McClure.”

“Oh, I should of known girls with a papa
like yours would be about the Lord’s busi-
ness,”’ said Miss Lizzie. ‘Come on in and Ill
call him. He was taking a little nap.”

“Oh,” said Virginia, looking as if she would
dive through the door.

Miss Lizzie waved her back. ““He won’t be a
minute,” she said. “‘Here he is now. Come on
in, Boycie. These girls are out doing the
Lord’s work.”

“Yes’m?”’ he said.

Boyce looked as if he had been sleeping, his
hair pushed up in back, his nose a little red,
but there was an interested awake look in his
blue eyes.

“This is Virginia, and this is Hallie, and
they’re the daughters of Brother Jones—you
know, down at the depot. He’s one of the
saintliest men I’ve just about ever known.”

“Yes’m. Pleased to meet you,” said Boyce
obligingly, and sat down in a rocker near the
door. He was very tall and with his blue eyes,
his crisp hair and his shirt open at the neck,
he had the air of a highwayman—not highway
man—who might come riding, riding, riding in

the moonlight. Hallie thought about Elberta
and how Elberta might have “‘tempted’’ him
as Miss Beulah suggested. He looked as if he
might have done the “tempting.”

Hallie waited for Virginia to begin. Virginia
should take the lead; she was corresponding
secretary of the B.Y.P.U.

Miss Lizzie looked from one to the other,
smiling.

“How old are you girls nowadays? My, I
never saw anybody grow like you. Just like
weeds.”

Virginia sat studying the picture of Great-
Uncle Walter as if she had come only for
that. “*Virginia’s fifteen and I’m thirteen now,”
said Hallie.

“T declare,” said Miss Lizzie.

Civility costs nothing, and buys every-
thing. LADY M. W. MONTAGUE

Boyce McClure put one foot up on his knee
and scratched it a little as he waited. He had
a hole in his sock. Hallie thought that if
Boyce McClure responded to Virginia’s in-
vitation there was no reason why she herself
should not visit B.Y.P.U. even if she was still
supposed to go to the meeting of the Sun-
beams on Saturday.

““How is Brother Jones?’ asked Miss Lizzie,
unhappy about the silence.

“All right, I guess,’ said Hallie. ““Reckon
he’ll be coming home from the depot soon.”

Virginia leaped to her feet and started for
the door. “We better go,”’ she said.

Boyce McClure looked from one to the
other.

“Virginia honey,” said Miss Lizzie, ‘‘didn’t
you have some message for Boycie here?”
She smiled encouragingly at Virginia.

But Virginia didn’t wait. She said from the
door, ““No’m, papa says sometime when we’re
in this neighborhood we ought to come see
you.

American
Pimento
Old English
Swiss, Brick

119

“T don’t think you can count a visit to Miss
Lizzie under community service,’ Hallie said
later.

“Well, at least he knows my name now,”
said Virginia.

Now that Hallie had seen it, the old Led-
better place haunted her like a sad gray
ghost. The more she thought about it the more
she sought the proper inhabitants for the old
place. Then the figure of Lucius Ledbetter,
broken and ramshackle as the house, came
to her. Thinking of Lucius caused her some
disquiet; she had a small tight ball of guilt
inside when she remembered that she had
thought of him as an old tramp and had
accused him of lying and being envious.

One day after Christmas Miss Lill brought
a basket of pecan nuts over to mamma. “Seems
to me I haven’t seen Lucius Ledbetter over at
your place in a long time,” Hallie said as she
cracked two of the pecans in her hand and
looked away from Miss Lill as if she were not
really interested in the answer.

“Why,”’ said Miss Lill, “I was just telling
Doc he ought to see about Lucius. Why, that
old coot didn’t even come up for his Christmas
dinner. And he just never misses bringing
some little trash for the children on Christ-
mas.”

Next day at supper papa said that Doc
McGhee had found Lucius down in Adam
Lincoln’s shanty next the tracks.

“Is he bad off?” asked Hallie.

“Doc McGhee brought him up to his house.
Says he’s a sick man. He told Adam he better
burn that bed old Lucius been sleeping in.”

“IT hope Adam doesn’t catch it, whatever
it is,” said mamma.

Miss Lill put Lucius to bed in a little room
beyond the dining room detached from the
rest of the house. Aunt Relly came by after
school and bathed him and cleaned up his
room, and Dellie the McGhee cook, took his
meals in to him.

““Maybe I could take Lucius some rusk,”
said Hallie when she came in from school and
found mamma taking it out of the oven.

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“That’s a nice idea,’ mamma said. “Take
a half of one of these and wrap it in a napkin.
Tell him to eat it while it’s hot.”

Lucius was propped up high on the pillows,
and his small brown bloodshot eyes turned on
her with the same interest that she remem-
bered. ‘“‘Hey, Hallie,” he said. ““Come on in.”

“Mamma thought you might like some
rusk. She just baked it,” said Hallie, taking it
up to his bed and removing the napkin.

“Smells good,”’ he said, sniffing it to show
his appreciation. “‘Now just lay hit down
there.’ He gestured to a table by the bed on
which pink paper flowers, stiffly waxed, sat in
a blue vase

“IT mustn’t stay,” said Hallie, taking the
chair by the bed. She folded her hands in her
lap, and Lucius put his head back against the
pillows and turned his bright brown gaze on
her expectantly.

“T was down to your old home place not
long ago,” said Hallie. “It’s like Magnolia
Hall, except ———”’ She could not express the
difference. The Ledbetter place—Montpelier,
she had named it—was like the bleached
bones of an old skeleton wracked by the sea
and finally tossed on a beach, whereas Mag-
nolia Hall was the living, moving man in
bright shining garments.

“Built by the same carpenter,” said Lucius.
‘**He come th’u from somewheres down near
Savannah and says he knew how to build nice
houses. Wood was all cut down on the place
and the houses built one right after another.”

“Don’t you and River and... your brother
up in Atlanta ——”’

“Byrd?”

‘“Why don’t you write Mr. Byrd, and see if
he doesn’t want to fix it up?”

“Byrd don’t keer about that old place,”
said Lucius. “‘He’s got himself a fine place up
there, got himself a wife and some boys. I im-
agine that Byrd’s even got to see the ocean.”

“Got to see the ocean?’ murmured Hallie.
She longed with all the passion of a child born
inland to see the ocean; tried to imagine its
untellable vastness, its dark and _ swirling
depths, its monstrous waves.

Lucius said, ““*Mamma used to say she had
*bout everything she wanted except she wanted
to see the ocean. Mamma really loved water.
She made papa cut down ever’ last tree betwixt
the house and the river so’s she could always
see hit runnin’ by.”

“Is that why she named Mr. River River?”

“Yes’m. After she named me Lucius after
pa, she says she was goin’ to name her chillun
for the purtiest things she knew. So she named
River River and Byrd Bird.”

“Oh, B-i-r-d,’’ said Hallie.

“Bird, like a bird that flies,” said Lucius.
“They tell me Bird’s done changed the spellin’
on his name. When he run for commissioner
I seen he spelt hit B-y-r-d.”

“T like B-i-r-d better,’ said Hallie.

“Me and River used to say to mamma,
‘Mamma, if you’d ’a’ had girls would you ’a’
named them Honeysuckle and Magnolia?’”’
He panted and coughed again and lay back
against the pillow. For a while he kept his
eyes shut and when he opened them he looked
at the room and at Hallie with surprise, as if
he had been away for a while in another
room. “Mamma said, ‘One of you boys just
got to see the ocean.’ She used to say to pa,
‘Lucius, tell the boys about the ocean.’ He
seen hit when he were up there to the war.
But he says he seen too much blood at the
same time, he don’t keer to talk about hit.”

Diane you want to see the ocean?” asked
Hallie. The attitude of his father toward the
war, a war hallowed in the memories of all
true Southerners, had caused the trouble
between them before. She would distract him

“Yes’m. I'd ’a’ liked right well to ’a’ seen
hit. But we decided, guess that was after pa
died, that Bird had more chancet. I was the
po’liest one, and River liked the woods and
he didn’ want to go, so mamma sent Bird up
to one of papa’s uncles in Atlanta.”

“Maybe if Mr. Bird knew about the house
he’d want to save it,”” Hallie said.

“Oh, Bird’s got other fish to fry,’ said
Lucius. He slumped a little in the bed now and

| closed his eyes

“Mamma says I shouldn’t stay long,”’ said

| Hallie, standing.

He opened his eyes again. ‘““Come on back
and set anytime,’ he said, smiling, even
twinkling at her. “I’m agoin’ to be gettin’ up
and about one of these days soon, but till I do
I just soon have company.”

As she walked across the street swinging
the napkin Hallie still had an uneasy feeling
about him. Calling on him with the rusk was
something any girl, any member of the Sun-
beams, might do and write down on Saturday
when the good deeds for the week were col-
lected. So she thought next day she would take
him flowers. But Lucius already had a caller;

when Hallie entered Adam rose from the
rocker beside his bed.
“Hallie, I’m mighty glad you come,”

Lucius said. ‘This old black preacher ain’t
going to stop until he converts me. Been
workin’ on me, workin’ on me, how many
years now, Adam?”

““Guess me’n you about the same age, least
we were when we were boys.”

**Adam here comes from a real bullheaded
family,’ said Lucius. ‘“‘When pa come back
from the war he found Adam’s pa settin’
down there waitin’ for him, him and Hattie.
They’d hid the horses when that old buzzard,

lay

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Cap’n Featherstone, was aroundin’ them up.
Pa give old Adam fifty acres and told him to J
pick out a name. Old Adam, he says he wants 9
to be named Adam Lincoln. Pa didn’t like
that Lincoln part, but he says he guess Adam
has a right to pick out his own name.” |

“Mr. Lincoln were a great man,” said
Adam.

“Guess mamma would say if one of us boys
couldn’t hold on to the old home place she’d |
as soon see Adam Lincoln have hit,” said
Lucius. j

Adam said soothingly, “Git well now,
Lucius, and you can have it back anytime you
want it. We'll get Mr. Barksdale to throw the
Duckets out.”

“Pa always said them Lincolns were all just}
as stubborn as mules, ever’ one of them,”
Lucius snickered and coughed. a

*‘Where’s your syrup?’” Adam asked. :

“°Tain’t no good,” Lucius gasped. “Dé
says hit ain’t no good.”

““How come he sells it then?” said Adam.
“T’ll get you a bottle so’s you can have it in the
night.”

CONTINUED ON PAGE 122

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464
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 120

Lucius lay back against the pillows with his
eyes closed. His cheekbones glistened and
his face had a stretched, lifeless look.

“T think I ought to go now,” said Hallie, but
then she saw that she was still holding the
bouquet. She held it out to Lucius, thinking
hard because she could not say it, hoping that
Lucius could feel her apology coming down
through her arm and out into the feeble
blossoms: Oh, Lucius, you were right and I was
wrong and I am sorry.

He took the bouquet as he had taken the
rusk and sniffed it, smiled one of his Santa

Claus smiles and said, “Smells almost as good
as a magnolia.”

“Tl bring you a magnolia later,’ Hallie
said, feeling released, feeling understood. She
would beg or borrow or steal a magnolia
from Miss Beulah’s across the street when the
season came.

“Tl be waitin’ for it,” he said.

Hallie waved a hand to say good-bye and
went out into the dusk of the big porch. The
sky and air were green and chill as pond water;
a sad time of day. Often Hallie had contem-
plated the vastness and sadness of the world
as the sun set, but this was a different sadness
She did not want to go into the warm open

brightness of the kitchen where her face and
feelings would be exposed. The water oak was
green-black and cold, but she crawled up and
sat on the boards of the tree house, then lay
on her stomach and felt cold and sad. She
wanted to make it all different. She wanted the
world to be different for Lucius. Bird (or
Byrd) should return like a knight in shining
armor and restore the old house to its rightful
owners, prop it up, paint it, establish Lucius
in a reclining chair on the sunny porch behind
the columns, and hire Adam to fetch and carry
in the old Southern way. Then she pondered
on Adam’s black hand tenderly raising Lucius
up to spit, and thought, He’s waiting on Lucius

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because he wants to, not because he has to.
And the look that Lucius turned on him was
that of a brother. Adam seemed to act more
like a brother than either River or Mr. Bird.
She began to weep, to weep for all the gray
bones of Ledbetters in Tranquil graveyard, to
weep for River, to weep for Lucius, to weep
that Lucius had never seen the ocean and never
would see it now.

Hallie was prepared when she heard the
next day that Lucius had died. Prepared and
yet made weak by the news. “Adam was with
him,” mamma said, and this made her want
to cry even more, but she refused to give way.
Virginia had come in from school with her
and she would never understand how Hallie,
the silly fool, could burst into tears for an old
tramp like Lucius Ledbetter. 4

What could she explain? That she loved;
Lucius; that she loved his mother, that little
mountain girl who rode a mule through the
springtime, holding a rooster.

“Doc was planning to go ahead with the
funeral tomorrow; he’d already picked out
one of his own coffins for him, but then he
thought he ought to wire Mr. Bird Ledbetter,
that’s Lucius’s brother, lives up in Atlanta. He
says to wait and have the funeral Saturday
and he'll come,” mamma went on.

Hhanie waited on the porch on Saturday,
even after mamma and Virginia had gone on
over to the church. She waited to see Mr. Bird
arrive, thinking she would get some idea from
his face what the future of Montpelier might
be. Because from now on, the only hope of
saving Montpelier would lie with Mr. Bird.
Lucius was dead, and anyone could see that
River lacked get-up-and-go.

The hearse arrived, followed by a black car
almost as long as the hearse. It must be at
least a Pierce Arrow, Hallie thought, and hope
quickened in her bosom. This must be Mr.
Bird. A man was driving and a pretty woman
with a blue hat trimmed with varicolored
feathers sat beside him. Mr. Bird got out of
the car and in a courtly manner came around
and opened the front door for his wife to de-
scend. She put her arm through his and they
stood waiting, heads bowed slightly, while the
coffin was taken from the hearse. Hallie ran
quickly around to the side door, down the side
aisle and into her seat in time to see the coffin |
come in at the front door, followed by Mr. |
Bird and his wife. Adam Lincoln and Mary
sat in the balcony, and Adam leaned forward |
and rested his arms on the railing. |

River sat in the front pew with Mr. Fitz-
gerald. As Mr. Bird sat down he seemed sur-,
prised to see him and offered his hand timidly |
and awkwardly, while Mr. Bird shook hands
as if he did it often. |

Brother Jamieson prayed. “Lord,” he said, @..:,
“we are gathered together to perform the last...
rites for this our brother, made of clay like the}
rest of us, cut down suddenly in his manhood.\
Was he ready, Lord? Our days are numbered)
even as are the sands of the sea, and Thou!
knowest the day on which we shall be called
before Thy throne to answer for our sins of
omission and commission. Lord, wilt Thou)
say to us, ‘Well done, good and faithful ser
vant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord,’ o1
shall we be cast into outer darkness wherejf.
there shall be weeping and wailing and gnash-
ing of teeth? Lord, each and every one of us
must face up to that question. Oh, that this oul
brother hast made the right decision. Amen.”

Brother Jamieson kept his head hanging
and his eyes closed for a second or two as if
were thinking. Hallie, too, was thinki
Would Lucius be cast into outer darkne:
where there was weeping and wailing an
gnashing of teeth? Not only had he never seg.
foot inside a church, but his father before hing,
had not been there for years. Did River quaki
inside? He always went walking with the dog
on Sundays. And Mr. Bird? He looked un|
worried; probably he attended church reg
ularly, and his wife looked as if she migh
teach Sunday school.

Brother Jamieson now stepped back, an
said, “Is there anyone here present who wishe
to be heard before we transfer the ceremonié¢
to the graveside?”

River did not show any sign that he ha
even heard the question and Mr. Bird shoo

ARCH, 1962

s head slightly. In the quiet of waiting a deep
yice suddenly boomed out, boomed out over
e heads of the congregation, and they all
'rned to look upward. “Brother Jamieson,”
'e voice said, “I’d like to offer a prayer.”
dam stood tall in the balcony and stretched
‘s arms out over the congregation, closed his
es and prayed: “Lord, Thou lookest upon
e heart. Thou knowest that this man was
\ntle as a lamb, as innocent as a dove. Lord,
there is no place saved for him on Thy right
ind, let him sit upon Thy footstool. He’s on
‘s way there now, Lord, mountin’ up there
-aight to Thy throne on strong and powerful
ngs. He’s thrashin’ th’u the air with a noise
e the wind in the trees, and when he comes,
yrd, take him by the hand and say, ‘Lucius,
‘u may ’a’ talked one way down there, but I
en you and I knows you. Enter thou into the
/ of thy Lord.’ For Jesus’s sake, amen.”
‘Hallie’s closed eyes were flooded with tears.
was beautiful to think of Lucius flying pow-
‘ully through the air, heading straight for
» throne, when in life he had crawfished
bng. She blinked her eyes to hide her tears
id saw Miss Lill blowing her nose and Doc
vatching his bald head and moving his hand
wn toward his eyes. Brother Jamieson must
1 sheepish. Everyone must feel now that
cius would sit on God’s footstool, not out
the dark.
After the grave ceremonies the crowd me-
dered slowly toward the parked cars. Mr.
rd seemed no longer sad; he talked in a
py way as if being there greeting his friends
Ws what he had been longing to do. His talk
Ws almost like Lucius’s, but as if he had un-
Krned it and then learned it again.

Misfor-
CHINESE PROVERB

sssings never come in pairs.
jes never come alone.

}
i
i]

\Friends,” he said, “I been away too long. I

; to get down in here oftener, get to know
‘Yi better. Yessir-ree, all during this funeral I
| thinkin’, been athinkin’ that the old

‘in fellow was right when he said, *Ubique

inisci patriam,’ which to me, friends,

Ans you cain’t go back on your raisin’.”

Listen to Bird put on,” snickered Mr.
\Begerald to River, jabbing him in the arm
yet seeming proud of Mr. Bird too.

“#1 want to get to know my neighbors,” Mr.

went on, “yes, and my own relations.”
‘looked at River, but River did not meet
“@eyes ; he was staring at the ground. “‘Maybe
if@e of you here present remember my old
er down in the Tranquil section, praise

j,a man who gladly went out and fought
whe South in the War Between the States,
‘i lieutenant in the Featherstone Fusileers
‘fer Captain Featherstone, a man who went
WM to serve God and the South.”

e paused and turned towfird the car and
laie feared that he was going to say good-bye
oaB then she would never know . . . never
Wy. How should she ask it? Was he coming
. to save Montpelier? She could not ask
iff right out. And suddenly she was asking a
(. Btion that she did not even know she was

icing about.

mij Mr. Bird, did you ever see the ocean?” As
“|B as she said it she felt a fool.

hs oney,” Mr. Bird said, ‘“‘you’ve asked me
mod question.” He turned to the group
waffnd him. ‘Friends, this little girl wants to
xv if I’ve ever seen the ocean. I want you
@how that I not only have seen the ocean,
mii’ ve seen what’s on the other side of the
2: @m. I had the opportunity, friends, to serve
Ountry in the last war, in that great war
reedom and democracy. But friends, I
you to know that the ocean off the shores
eorgia is the prettiest ocean you’ve seen
here. From Rabun Gap to Tybee Light
ave one of the most beautiful states any-
e in any country of the world. I’m glad
ittle child has asked me this question be-
> I want to say to her, and say to you,
© God, that I’m proud of my state and
of it’s as pretty as,Plum Branch County.
made a resolve, friends, just while I’ve
here. I’m comin’ back. I’m comin’ back
1 old home place. I’ve neglected my family

and my friends and the house of my fathers
long enough.”

Hallie had been disappointed at first that he
had used the ocean only to get somewhere and
to come back. That wasn’t what his mother
had meant. But her heart had risen when he
said he was coming back to his old home
place. A man with a Pierce Arrow would fix
up his old home place; he would not come
and camp in it like the Duckets.

Mr. Bird got in behind the wheel. Looking
at Mr. Fitzgerald, he said, ‘“‘Look for me down
this way soon now—I’ll get in touch with
you,” and started backing out.

Mr. Fitzgerald poked River again. ‘‘Sounds
pretty nice, don’t it, River? You gonna go
back down in there and git your old home
place back.”

nue: showed no signs of joy. “Maybe he
don’t know he’s gonna have to buy hit back
from Adam.”

“IT don’t think Adam would want that old
run-down place,” said Mr. Craig. “I can’t
really see what Mr. Bird wants with it either.”

“He’s fixin’ up to run for somethin’,”’ said
Mr. Wake McClure. “I thought he was hardly
goin’ to get away from the graveside before he
started *lectioneerin’.”’

“Couldn’t be governor,” said Mr. Craig,
“not yet. Maybe lieutenant governor?”

Mr. Fitzgerald slapped River on the back
again. “What you think about having a
brother in the governor’s seat, River?”

Hallie walked across the street, but instead
of going inside she climbed the tree and sat
there for a while. Mr. Bird seemed to love his
old home place. He planned to come back and
save it. He would take it from Adam, which
would be all right; Adam said he did not want
it. Yet she was not entirely happy as she sat
there, though she kept telling herself she
should be.

One day in February Aunt Relly knocked
on the back porch and called, “Mrs. Jones.”

Mamma seemed to know just why she had
come. “Did Elberta have her baby?’ she
asked. “‘Is she all right?”

Aunt Relly had such a morose air that Hal-
lie was sure that the delivery must have been
like those in Miss Beulah’s worst (or best?)
stories.

““Yes’m, she’s all right, I reckon. Thank the
Lawd she done have a boy.” But even as she
said this Aunt Relly did not look particularly
happy.

When Elberta came back to work mamma
fixed up a wash basket next to the kitchen
range. Papa leaned over the basket and poked
the baby and clucked at him. The baby
opened his eyes and papa picked him up and
held him. ““You named him yet, Elberta?”
he asked. He rocked the baby in his arms.

“Naw, sir, still just callin’ him Baby.”

“You can’t go on like that forever,” said
mamma. “A nice boy like that ought to have a
nice name.”

“Why don’t you name him for papa?” said
Hallie.

Mamma said, “‘Jonathan’ seems a little
formal. But you could call him Jonny for
short.”

“T always thought Jonny was the prettiest
name for a boy,”’ Elberta said.

When Elberta was off cleaning in another
part of the house Hallie picked the baby up,
undid the blankets and examined him quickly
to see if he had a black stripe running down
his spine. A little baby as white as this one
must show his colored blood in some way.

When Miss Beulah saw the baby she rolled
her eyes, turned her head away in disgust and
said to mamma, “What did I tell you?” Long
ago before Elberta looked even the least bit
pregnant Miss Beulah had predicted that the
baby would be white.

“Mamma,” Hallie whispered one day when
Elberta was out of the kitchen, “do Negro
babies usually have blue eyes?”

“No,”’ said mamma, and that was all she
said.

Elberta blossomed out into a new creature,
a proud mother. Oh, she was proud of that
baby. But she seemed also to be a laughing,
happy girl who sang about her work.

One Saturday afternoon Hallie saw Elberta
downtown wearing a new dress, a blue dress

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L2‘rT
that Hallie had never seen before. Where did
she get it? The dress was silk and Elberta

looked tall and slender and pretty, a proud
princess. The crowd in front of the cotton office

stopped talking as she passed; the men sat on
their haunches and stared as she went by. She did
not even glance into the post office (who would
write Elberta?), went past the bank and on to-
ward Mr. Jess Bailey’s store. Mr. Jess Bailey was
standing in front talking to a farmer; he finished
with the farmer and went hurriedly inside. Elberta

JUS dishes like these: Saffron Rice Kebab, Rice & Herbs with

disappeared around the corner and Hallie won-
dered where she could be going so dressed up on
a Saturday afternoon.

When March came Hallie and Virginia began
to practice new pieces in expression. Miss Cor-
rine said that both of them should try out in the
contest at the end of school. “Start your piece
early,’ she said to Hallie, “‘and we'll work hard
on it now. I’m going to be extra busy toward the

end of school.”

At first the significance of this remark did not
register on Hallie. But the next Sunday around
the bend in the stairway she saw Miss Corrine
and Mr. Jess standing close together at the choir
door. Miss Corrine was poised, ready to step up
into the choir when Mr. Jess leaned forward and
took her by the arm, held her back, leaned for-
ward and touched his lips to her neck, held his
lips there, and nibbled her neck under the three
brown curls that hung down from her knot. Miss
Corrine, her face warming up, turned and looked

LAVICS MUNIE JUURWNAI

deeply into his eyes, as if she longed t¢
turn her lips to him, then gave hin
a little push as if to say, “This is no
the place for that,’ and turned fron
him and stepped up into the choir
On the bend of the stair Hallie held
herself still for a heartbeat or two
Now she knew why Miss Corrine wa
going to be busy toward the end o
school. Miss Corrine and Mr. Jes
were planning to be married. A
Hallie asked Miss Toulou Vass i!
she would give her the Weddin;
March—Mendelssohn’s—for her nex
piece. ““Why, honey,” said Miss Tou!
lou, “is somebody stepping off ani
keeping it a secret? Is Virginia quit!
old enough?” She said this openin
wide her amber eyes and lookin'}\”
mock-seriously at Hallie. “I think éf
a pretty piece,’ said Hallie, and sh’
started practicing it every afternoor
stroking firmly down on middle C fo
the breathtaking beginning.
Beginning in mid-April, every Sur!
day after church, while Miss Corrin
and Mr. Jess Bailey wended their wa
down from the choir, stopping t
shake hands and talk to people, an}
then walked around to the front doc
and toward Miss Corrine’s car, Halli
raced ahead across the street, ran int!
the living room and began to play th
Wedding March. She could not pla}
and watch at the same time—that we]
impossible—she could not tell if Mi}}™
Corrine stopped as she was beir}}
gently handed into the car, pause
and listened and said, ‘Where is th’
music coming from?’ But perhaps tl }} **
tune, and the expressive way in whic}/*”
it was played, would haunt Mij})*”
Corrine. She would begin to wondd}™
whence it had come, and of cour
once she began thinking she wou
immediately decide that it came fro!
the Joneses’ house. And of cour

step to deciding that Hallie must ple
for her wedding.

Hallie tried this plan for sever}
Sundays. But here it was already Mé})
and Miss Corrine had given no sif Pic
that she even suspected Hallie wi)’
available to play the Wedding Marj:
and Hallie feared she might choo
someone else. Surely Miss Corti}!
must be making her plans, but the}**
was no whisper that she was even gt)
ting married. }
Q; this Sunday evening in May Hi
lie thought about it all during pray}*
meeting. It was a dull prayer meeti
because so few people came. Sf
hoped to see Mr. Bird Ledbetter;
had attended the morning service, (})!
riving alone in his Pierce Arrow. E
Mr. Bird must have gone back to /
lanta in the afternoon. Boyce
Clure was there, sitting next to M

Belle’s cheeks were splendid as «4
ples. Shadrack Cartledge was mi}/ti
ing; and Benny and the boys, wW
usually crowded into the back p
after the first hymn, never came at#}'*!ie

psd

Make a dazzling variety of company- any flat cooked-out or pre-cooked ips ek And where was Mr. Jess Bailey? Mj)
style dishes quickly, easily—starting taste. Get up to 3 times more rice and : PSE. Corrine sat next to Mr. Holden i m Mr
with natural* white rice, River Brand energy-value for your money than choir and sang off his book. “| us
or Carolina Brand Rice. Serve deli- with pre-cooked rice (check weights After Brother Jamieson had Pl.
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dinner, bedtime snacks—all smackin’ Taste the delicious difference from ducked past papa quickly, knowj'
good with fresh natural flavor. your “pantry in a package’’—River that without, Mr. Jess Bailey th te
jut make no mistake! Be sure of — Brand or Carolina Rice—costsso little, Miss Corrine would not linger. &)%'0
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important fresh natural flavor with coupon for exclusive, heavenly spices bis house, sat down at the piano, paul"
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; i get across the street. Finally, feel/}'"
OOO © O O'S OE OO O60 0 8 0.0. 6,8:6'10 66 0 0 0 0 6 0 6 6 6 0 0016)6 0 6, 0.0.0.0 06.0) 00s) 0x8) eLelsielerene Hy the moment had come, she began a"
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MARCH, 1962

In the pause before the chords, like a
yreathing pause in expression, she heard a
ound like horses’ hooves, a half-heard hollow
‘lomp of horses’ hooves muffled in dust. Then
he sensed a strange light in the room, a yel-
ow flickering; she played the first chord,
»layed it extra loud, but she could not ignore
“he dancing reflection on the black wood of
‘he piano. No one ever rode a horse at night;
10 one but Mr. Jess Bailey ever rode a horse,
‘hough occasionally a Negro rode a mule.

she ran to the door and out onto the porch.
“here, just passing the church and about to
yass her house, were white-robed riders on
vhite-robed horses, carrying torches, great
hunks of rich lightwood held high and flaring
edas the riders and marchers moved forward.
, The procession passed in front of the church
7 owly, like a parade before a reviewing stand,
"ind she could see now that the steps were

ghted front window of the church, Everyone
ood still there, watching. And although it
’as not a large procession, four men on horses
r mules with torches and a few figures on
pot, it seemed to take a while for it to pass,
.) slowly and solemnly did they walk. They
| arned the corner toward town—and it was
I ly then that she could pause in her looking
‘Jad say to herself, Ku Klux Klan.

4A minute later mamma and Virginia came
_} and went to the window on the orchard side
watch the procession moving toward town.
hen papa came in mamma said, ‘I never
ew there was a Ku Klux Klan around here,

, Papa sheok his head. “What are they up
? There’s sin, Lord knows there’s always
a, but punishment? Who shall cast the first
one?’ No one answered.

Hallie said, “I thought the Ku Klux Klan
as something they had after the war was
er. Didn’t it keep law and order then?”
‘inking of The Clansman, by Thomas Dixon.

id, “but seems to me we've gone past that
yw. When you come right down to it, I really

Virginia said, ““Do you reckon they could
Man to /ynch somebody?” She whispered the
“rd “lynch.” Hallie thought, Lynching;
rely not lynching, not in Greenwood; lynch-
4 happened far away and long ago, always

| their way, she suddenly saw a body col-
sed on the end of a rope.

Who could they be after?” she murmured.
amma turned the ring on her finger and
ked out the window. She did not answer
illie’s question. ‘“‘Where’s Benny?’ she

I kept wondering why he didn’t come to
rch,” said Virginia, ‘but then none of the
s did.” as

}I can’t understand why they came by just
2n church was letting out,” said papa.
‘ems sacrilegious.” ‘

Maybe they were just showing off,”
ma said hopefully. ““Once they get them-
es all fixed up they just got to show off to
nebody. If I hear that Benny’s fooling
‘Bund with that crowd ——”

jirginia sat on the piano stool and kept
“ Wriing around on it. “Mr. Jess Bailey wasn’t
gh hurch, Mr. Shadrack Cartledge wasn’t
“We either.”

ot Mr. Jess Bailey with his open, pure
. She was not sure how she felt about the
Klux.Klan; but she knew (knew it from
dreams where she knew him well) that Mr.
would never need to cover his face.

apa said, ““Why, I couldn’t believe a thing
that of Mr. Jess Bailey.”

td be just like Mr. Shadrack Cartledge,”
Virginia. “Honestly, I think he’s one of
eanest-looking men I’ve ever seen. He
a real mean look out of his eyes.”’

amma said to papa, “Maybe you ought to
a talk with Benny. He’s too old to whip.”
ipa looked unhappy at the thought of
ng to Benny. ““Well, let’s wait and see.
t tell yet. He may just have gone down in
B-ountry with some of the boys; may be

attending church down there in the country,”
he said hopefully. Papa always hoped the
answer would be simple.

“Do you think they were just parading
around, or were really out to—to scare some-
body?” Hallie asked.

“Let’s hope they’re just showing off. Maybe
it’s kind of like when the Masons meet,” said
mamma. “Your father had a hat with a white
plume on it over in Glover.”

They sat on in the living room; papa still
held his Bible on his knee and mamma still
wore her jacket. Virginia swung round and
round on the piano stool; Hallie hoped that
she would not notice the music of the Wedding
March. Finally papa laid down his Bible and
closed the window. “‘Guess we might’s well go
to bed. Nothing we can do anyhow.”

Though Hallie and Virginia had the room
farthest back, Hallie heard Benny coming in
later; a door opened and closed almost with-
out sound. Much later, she woke up to hear a
voice, the sound from her dream, whispering
from the back porch, ‘‘Mrs. Jones?” She sat
up now and when she heard mamma walking
across her room and opening the screen door
she tiptoed out to the porch too. A figure

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leaned against a post, holding on to it as if for
support.

Mamma peered in the darkness. “Elberta. Is
it you, Elberta? Come on in, child. Come in.”
She took her by the arm and guided her into
the back hall and then into the kitchen. Hallie
followed. Mamma did not turn on a light until
she was in the kitchen. Elberta stood there like
the girl who had come to them months ago—
dejected, beat down, wearing Aunt Relly’s
sweater and the same faded dress. Mamma
took her by both arms and pushed her into a
chair. ‘“You’re trembling, Elberta. Hallie, get
a quilt. Now don’t wake everybody up,” she
said softly but sternly.

Hallie found a quilt lying on the trunk and
tiptoed back with it, carefully, carefully, clos-
ing the doors behind her.

Mamma had stirred up the fire and put some
milk in a pan, and she took the quilt from
Hallie and wrapped it around Elberta’s shoul-
ders. Then she seemed to see Hallie for the first
time, standing there in her nightgown. ““What
are you doing up, Hallie? You just go right on
back to bed.”

“Yes’m,” said Hallie, and walked from the
room, through the dark hall, opened the
screen door and shut it with a slight bang, then
tiptoed back in the darkness and sat down un-
der the summer table next the kitchen door.

“Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones,” Elberta sobbed,
“T got to go away.”

“Elberta, stop crying,” said mamma firmly.
“Stop crying now and tell me.”

“Them men come by tonight. Oh, Mrs.
Jones, I was so scared.”

“You mean the Ku Klux Klan?” asked
mamma.

“Yes’m, them men all dressed up in white
sheets. Them were the ones.”

“Elberta, what did they do to you? Did they
harm you, Elberta?”

“No’m, no’m, I’m all right, but I got to go
away. They said so.’”’ She sobbed aloud once
more.

“Elberta, you have to tell me,” said mamma.

“Yes’m, I will.” And there was a silence.
Then, “I done fed Jonny, and Aunt Relly was
settin’ by the fire and I was about to go to
sleep when I heard somethin’ and I opened my
eyes and I seen this light outside and heard
men’s voices talkin’, and then I heard someone
bangin’ on the steps. I sat up and Aunt Relly
looked toward me. I could just see her eyes
there in the firelight. We hadn’ lit no lamp.
And she went toward the door and opened hit
a crack and says, ‘What you want?’

““We don’t want you, Aunt Relly,’ some-
body called. Then they said, ‘Where’s that
gal?’”’ Elberta stopped here, as if to get her
breath, as if she could not bear to go on.

“Yes?” said mamma.

“Then Aunt Relly, she calls out, ‘What you
want with her?’ and didn’ move, just stood
there at the door, but I was scared. Oh, I was
scared. I slid down under the covers until I was
at the foot of the bed, and I lay there shakin’.”’

‘

Dre began to cry again, and mamma said,
“Drink a little more of the milk, Elberta.”
Then, “Did you go to the door?”

“They kep’ on sayin’, ‘Where’s your niece,
Aunt Relly? Send her out here,’ and Aunt
Relly says again, ‘What you want with her?’
and then someone said, ‘We ain’t goin’ to hurt
her if she comes out nice.’

“So Aunt Relly come and took the baby
away from me and says, ‘Wrop a quilt around
you and go out.’ AndI wropped a quilt around
me and stepped to the door. And then one of
*em says, ‘Step on out here, gal, we got some-
thin’ for you,’ and helt somethin’ out toward
me. I seen hit were a letter, and I reached for-
ward my hand and taken hit.”

“What did it say?” asked mamma.

“Here hit is,” said Elberta. “Hit says I got
to leave.”

Mamma was silent for a minute. She must
be studying the letter.

“Who gave it to you?” she asked.

“IT couldn’ tell,” said Elberta. ““They were all
covered up and they weren’t a good light.”

“Didn’t you recognize any voices or see
anything that would give you a clue to who
they were?” asked mamma. “Think, Elberta.”

There was silence for a minute and then
Elberta, her voice trembling, said, ‘‘Well’m,
when I reached forward my hand to git the
letter one of the horses whinnied. When I
looked there, someone swung one of them
lights around and I seen the horse had white
on hits legs.”’ Elberta began to cry again.

Mamma said, “A horse with white legs?” in
a disappointed voice. But Hallie’s insides
seemed to jump and she leaned forward.

“Like little white stockings on hits legs,”
sobbed Elberta.

“Do you know the horse?’ asked mamma.
“Had you ever seen it before?”

“Yes’m, I seen hit before,’ and Elberta
cried harder than ever. “Hit were Mr. Jess
Bailey’s,”’ she said. “Hit were Lady.”

“The horse with the white legs belongs to
Mr. Jess Bailey?’ said mamma.

Elberta said, “‘Oh, I feared hit were him. Hit
were Mr. Jess.”” And she cried and cried.

“But why, Elberta, why? Would he have a
reason?” and Hallie knew at once what the
reason was, knew at last that Jonny’s blue
eyes did not come from Boyce McClure.
“Elberta,” said mamma, “‘was Mr. Jess Bailey
the man?”

Elberta made no sound, but she must have
nodded her head because mamma went on as
if her question were answered.

“Oh, Elberta, Elberta,” mamma said sadly,
sadly. Then after a minute she said, ““How did
you know him, Elberta, way down there in
the country?”

““He come down there in the country, come
down there ridin’ that pretty brown horse with
white legs he calls Lady. He was huntin’ round
down in there lookin’ for kaolin.”

aC eae

125

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“He rid up to the door one day and ast for
a drink of water.”

“‘Where was your mother?” asked mamma.
“Wasn't she there, or your father?”

“They were all away. Hit were cotton-
pickin’ time. I was there i’nin’ in the front
door when he rid up. He ast for a drink and I
give him one from the bucket and I told him
he could get a cool one over in the woods at
the spring.”

“And he went away then?’’ said mamma.

“Yes’m. He come back two or three days
later. He brought me a box of Fig Newtons.
Said he wanted to thank me for the drink of
water.”

“And that was all?”

‘““No’m. He come by two or three times.
Sometimes he had a sack of candy. And one
day he come by and brought me a dress. Oh,
hit were the prettiest dress, the prettiest dress
I ever had. Hit were blue.”

“Did you show it to your mother?”

“IT hid it,’ Elberta told her. “I knew I
shouldn’ ’a’ taken hit, though Mr. Jess said
he just wanted to give me a present for givin’
him the water.”

| was silence again in the kitchen, and
Hallie had time to think of Mr. Jess Bailey
handing the blue dress to Elberta, smiling his
beautiful smile with the dimples showing
briefly.

Mamma said, “That wasn’t last summer.
After all, you were already here at cotton-
pickin’ time or soon after.”

“Yes’m; he didn’ come around again until
May. One time when I seen him comin’ I put
on the blue dress, and when he seen me he
taken me up in front of him on his saddle and
I rid with him to the spring.”

Hallie wanted to call out, No, no, no—that
was my dream. Crouching under the summer
table, her insides moved with pain as she
remembered her own dream of riding in front
of Mr. Jess Bailey on his horse, her own dream
that he would lean forward and kiss the back
of her neck and murmur, “My dearest, most
precious little angel girl.”

“Elberta, has he ever said anything to you
since Hi

*“No’m, he’s never said anything. ’Course all
that time before I had the baby I never went
anywheres but here and to church with Aunt
Relly. | seen him sometimes pass in a car, or
far off ridin’ on his horse, but I was never real
close to him till

“Yes,” said mamma.

“Well, hit were just day before yestiddy.
Sat’d’y. I declare, Mrs. Jones, I don’t know
what come over me. I was feelin’ so good I put
on that blue dress. I told Aunt Relly I needed
some condensed milk for Jonny. And I walked
right down in front of the stores in my blue
dress. What come over me? I walked past his
store and he were standin’ there talkin’ with
a man and he seen me. He looked so scared, I
declare, I felt real sorry for him. And he just
turned right quick and went back inside. Oh,
Mrs. Jones, what you reckon made me do
that?”

“Oh, Elberta,”
in an angry way.

It was quiet for a long time in the kitchen.
Finally mamma said, “Do you think you
could go back to them now, back down there
in the country, with Jonny?”

“Oh, no’m, I couldn’, and Elberta began
to cry again. “I got no real place to go.”

“Don’t you have any relatives who would
take you in?”

Maybe I could go up to Macon and bode
with somebody,” said Elberta. “‘They’s lots
of folks from down here gone up to Macon.”

““Macon’s so close,” said mamma, as if
talking to herself. Then she said, ‘““You know
what I think you ought to do?”

““No’m.”

“| think you ought to give up being a colored
girl and become a white girl.”’

Elberta said, ““But Mrs. Jones Ms

Mamma said, “I think you’ll get along
better if you’re a white girl, and Jonny too. He
should become a white boy as soon as pos-
sible. Elberta, there’s no reason in the world
why you can’t pass, but you’ve got to learn to
speak better. And your name. I think you
ought to be called Alberta. Did you ever hear
of a white person called Elberta?”

mamma said, but sadly, not

“‘No’m, I never hear of anybody with the
name, only a peach.”” Then Elberta said, her
voice shaking and sounding as if she would
cry again, “But I cain’t do hit all by tomorrow,
Mrs. Jones, and the letter said I had to go
right away.”

“T’ve been thinking,’ said mamma. “‘T’'ll get
Mr. Jones to fix you up a ticket to Glover.
There’s a school over there for colored folks
and I know the people who run it. You can go
and stay at the institute for a while and then,
when you can talk better and get used to your
new name, I have an idea where you can go.”

““Yes’m?” said Elberta.

*‘When we were over in Glover,” mamma
said, “we took in a girl, a white girl, some
relation of Mr. Jones from down on the
Saluda River, and got her up to a hospital in
Philadelphia where she learned to be a nurse.
She married up there—married real well, a
doctor. I'll write to her and tell her about a
girl who needs help.”

“You goin’ to write her about a colored
girl who needs help?” asked Elberta.

“No,” said mamma, “Ill just write her
about a girl. And you go up there and work
and someday you'll find a good man and
you'll get married too.”” Mamma did not say,
**And you'll live happily ever after. Elberta,”
but Hallie could tell by her tone of voice that
she was planning it all that way.

But Hallie did not feel happy. Miss Beulah’s
stories came back to her. Elberta would go
north and marry some poor white man and
then she would have a black baby. The horror
of it shook her so that she got up from under
the table and walked toward the lighted kitchen
and stood in the door, ready to say to mamma
that she could not, should not.

“Hallie,” said mamma, ““why are you up
again?” Then, “Hallie, have you been listen-
ing?”

Hallie nodded her head.

“I declare you ought to get a good whip-
ping,’ said mamma. But she said it mildly, as
if she might have done the same. It always
killed mamma not to know everything. “Now
that you’re up,” said mamma, “‘you and I are
going to walk Alberta home. She’s got a little
boy there may be wondering where she’s
gone.”

They went out the kitchen door to the side
yard and out into the street. It was a dark
starry night. This is the latest I’ve ever been up,
thought Hallie, the very middle of the night.
I must be getting grown up to be up so late.

Hallie could not say the thought that had
brought her into the doorway, the thought of
the Negro baby born to Elberta when she
married a white man. Now she said, as if she
would creep up on the subject, ‘“What’s
Elberta going to say when they see she’s got
such black hair?”

“If they say, “What black hair you have,
Alberta,’ she should just say, ‘Thank you,
ma’am,’ as if it’s a compliment. Up there
where she’s going there’s lots of people with
dark hair, Greeks, Jews, Italians, Spaniards.
Who was that fellow, that Spanish fellow,
who kept looking for a fountain?”

“You mean Ponce de Leon?” said Hallie.

“Who can tell but what he came up in here?
Just say, ‘Ponce de Leon was one of my an-
cestors.’””

Elberta shivered. “I never could say that,
Mrs. Jones. Do I have to?”

“No,” said mamma. “I was just teasing
Hallie. She always wants people to have such
noble ancestors. Let’s hope people up north
don’t talk about ancestors as much as we do.”

Now they were in front of Elberta’s cabin,
and mamma said as she let her arm go,
“Get a good sleep, now, and tomorrow you’re
going to wake up and be 4/berta.”

“Oh, Mrs. Jones,” said Elberta, taking
mamma’s hand in both of hers and pulling it
toward her, clinging to it.

“Mamma,” said Hallie as they turned to
walk back under the water oaks, “‘is it right?
Elberta is colored.”

“Not nearly as much colored as she is
white,” said mamma. “She'll have an easier
time if she’s white.”

“But it isn’t right, is it? If she’s Negro, even
just a little bit, people ought to know it,
oughtn’t they? What if she marries and has a
coal-black baby?”

“Why coal-black?” said mamma. “Hon-
estly, Hallie, I declare, I wonder sometimes
where you get your ideas. I suppose I should
just never let you hear Miss Beulah open her
mouth. You sound just like her.”’

Hallie said, ““When I hear her I know she’s
silly, but what she says keeps coming back
anyhow, just popping back into my head.”

They walked on silently. Finally mamma
said, ““We can’t look on the dark side. We'll
just have to have faith. Alberta’s a nice girl
and a smart girl. We’re all human beings, -|
black or white, though sometimes the white
ones don’t act like it.”

When they came back into the kitchen and
stood in the light mamma put her hands on
her shoulders and said sternly, “Hallie, you’re
not to breathe a word of this, not to Virginia,
not to Margaret Craig, not to Benny.” ¢
“But what about Miss Corrine?” Hallieg |)
said. “‘And Mr. Barksdale? And Magnolia |)
Hall? Is everything going to be the same? |)
Just the way it was before? Is it right?
Shouldn’t you
“No,” said mamma. “No, I shouldn’t and |
you shouldn’t. He never would marry Elberta, ||)
not in a hundred years. He has his conscience
and what he tells Miss Corrine is up to him.
He'll have his worries. He wouldn’t’ve gotten |)
so desperate if he weren’t mighty worried. |)!
Now go to bed,’ and mamma kissed her and jj
gave her a push toward the hall door. hl
I wouldn't play the Wedding March for them 1)
if they asked me on their bended knees, |}
thought Hallie. And she thought of Mr. Jess’s
unfaithfulness—to Miss Corrine, to Elberta, |
to her (Hallie) in her dreams, to Magnolia 7%
Hall—oh, most of all, to Magnolia Hall.

Hallie wakened the next morning with a
vague ache in her legs, they would not be com- }
fortable in any position. Was this what |)
mamma meant by the “‘jimjams’’? Finally she
got out of bed and started dressing, but she
had to sit down so often to yawn and stretch

that Virginia was ready before her. | el
“What’s the matter with you?” Virginia Sui
asked. Men

She could not tell Virginia that she would |"
never rest easy again, that she would never Mik
again feel right knowing what she knew. A} ‘i
wrong had been done to Elberta, but should} Ws
it also be done to Miss Corrine? nt

Margaret Craig met her at the corner with}
the news of the Ku Klux Klan. Margaret hall m
seen the lights of the marchers out the jail!
window, seen them stopping in front of] ki
Elberta’s house. ty

“What did your father do?” asked Hallie ft be

“What did he do about what?” To
“About the Ku Klux Klan,” said Hallie’ of
““Shouldn’t he ask them what they’re doing, pis:
where they're going? Seems to me_ thepith
sheriff ——” iil |

Until last night if she had thought about the What
Ku Klux Klan she would probably havep taj
thought of it as a kind of Southern tradition} en
This morning all was different. She could stil }/4:
feel the shiver of surprise at the sight of thet:
white-robed figures. a fi

“Well, papa wasn’t around for one thing, Jit)
said Margaret. “He was out in the countr#f er;

looking for a dangerous criminal.” HAcim
As they turned into the driveway to schoo}f*inay
Miss Corrine passed in her roadster, drove inti}/*¢ ¢

the parking lot and jumped out. She was weat}}ith th;
ing her G.S.C.W. sweater and carried a bool} pz,
and a big bunch of pink roses, largess @]fi hi,
Magnolia Hall, which she would arrange i}fhj »;
her studio and share with other teachers. _ | yy

“You know your piece yet?” asked Mai and,

garet. Seeing Miss Corrine must have reg He:
minded Margaret of the expression con FO be
“Pretty near,” said Hallie. “‘Do you?” r Out

“Oh, I’ve known it for weeks now,” sail io,
Margaret. “Cousin Bootsie and I are workin} «i,
on the finishing touches.” She dropped he’ 4);
voice to a deep dramatic register. “ “Stick Fp,
the engine and stand by your mother, Jack,”
she said, in what was obviously intended tol Madi
a dying voice. le the

Miss Bootsie Craig always chose sad, dr bi,
matic pieces. Hallie had to admire Margarellf! ti
power although Miss Corrine would have!Pisy),
fit if one of her pupils carried on like thé lea,

Laura Fitzgerald turned around whi? st
Hallie was in her seat and wanted to kn¢/ f

for You,

MARCH, 1962

hl about the Ku Klux Klan. “Say, where was
3enny last night?” she asked. “I kept watch-
ng and watching for him at church and he
ever did come.”

“Don’t know,” said Hallie, not looking at
ier but at the board as if the identity of X
vas the most fascinating information in the
vorld.

The morning stretched like eternity ahead
of her.

When the lunch bell rang she decided to
‘valk home because she could not bear to listen
‘o Margaret Craig and Laura Fitzgerald gab-
ling. If she walked home she would have
only a few minutes before having to turn

‘round and come back, but it would be long
jnough to find out if Elberta got away all
light and if mamma had told papa that the
han was Mr. Jess. Perhaps papa would be
ible to do something to stop Miss Corrine
yom marrying Mr. Jess. He could speak to
Ar. Barksdale as man to man.
Mamma was taking the biscuits out of the
ven as she walked into the kitchen. “Well,”
he said, looking hard at Hallie, “I suppose
‘ou get tired of those dry sandwiches.”
_ Today papa took grace even more seriously
nan usual. He blessed the food and then went
in, “Lord, Lord, soften the hearts of those
ho sit in the seats of the powerful” (could he
ean Mr. Jess? Not until he lived at Magnolia
all), * ‘be with the poor and downtrodden”
Whis might refer to Elberta), “shed Thy grace
in those men, forgive them, Lord, those whited
-pulchres” (Mr. Jess, yes, Mr. Jess) “who un-
2r the cover of darkness, hiding behind
asks, take advantage of the helpless and the

‘ad officials are elected by good citizens
ho do not vote. GEORGE JEAN NATHAN

eak. Help us, Lord, help us to know which

» wath to take. Amen.”
|Mamma must have told him. But now she
tid, “Then you found out who was in the Ku
lux Klan, darling? The whole town knows?”

,@ Nobody knows,” said papa, “nobody

‘ bows for sure. But it’s easy to guess. Coming

wn in here thinking he can get everything

way.”

Who are you talking about, darling?”
kked mamma, sounding as mixed up as Hal-
| felt. Her stomach felt queer again; the
ed liver looked greasy. She did not feel like

\@iting and her eyes were full of crumbs.
‘I mean Mr. Bird Ledbetter,” said papa,

Mhing off the Bird and better with his thin,

ous mouth. “If he wasn’t with those night
ers, then he stirred them up to do his work.
od will hold him responsible.”
“What work?” asked mamma.
‘Leaving a note on Adam,”
Mreatening him.”

On Adam?” Mamma leaned back and put
n her fork. “Not on Adam. He wouldn’t
a fly. He’s a good man. Why would
hy do that?’’ And when papa did not an-

er her at once she said, ““Who told you?”
‘Adam told me,” said papa. “He’d just
8ne in and taken off his shoes when he heard
yacket down the road; he saw the lights
ough the door and then he heard someone
.@) his name, ‘Adam.’ He took a minute to
| on his shoes and whoever it was called,
ed his name again, two or three of them,
erent voices, and someone rapped on the
ch and said, “You better get on out here,
ger.” He said he took his time then, he don’t

+ to be talked to like that, but he finally

yped out on the porch and he could see the

"ted torches and the horses dressed up in
ets, and the men. And he said, ‘Who called
am?’ And someone stepped forward and
1, in a put-on, high voice. ‘Adam, here’s
> for you, nigger. Take heed.”
hat did it say?’ asked mamma.
‘Like the rest. Get out of town or ——”
But why would they want Adam to leave
n? He’s a good worker, knows his place,
ds his own business.”
Adam says it’s because Mr. Bird Ledbetter
ts his old home place back.”
allie’s brains felt addled. Of course she
* planned for Mr. Bird Ledbetter to take

said papa,

Montpelier back—this was her ptan—but not
this way; she had not planned this.

“Adam doesn’t want the Ledbetter old
home place, does he?” She concentrated so as
not to say Montpelier. ‘““Won’t he sell to Mr.
Bird?”

“Adam’s funny,” said papa. (Stubborn,
bullheaded, Lucius had said.) ““He said he
thought he would sell the house, if Mr. Bird
wanted it. But the more Mr. Bird talked to
him the more he thinks he won’t sell him any-
thing.”

“Did Mr. Bird speak mean to him?” asked
mamma.

““Adam just said he didn’t like the way Mr.
Bird talked. Said Mr. Bird had gone back on
his raising. He said Mr. Bird’s mother and
father would be ashamed to have a son grow
up and act like him.”

“Suppose Adam won’t sell.
go, won’t he?” said Hallie.

“He says he ain’t going and he ain’t sell-
ing.”’ (Stubborn, said Lucius.) “Says he’s going
to sit tight, mind his own business and pray
for his enemies.”

Mamma took away papa’s cold, uneaten
fried liver and brought him a dish of canned
peaches. “What are you going to do, dar-
ling?) she asked.

“I /don’t know,”
for guidance.”

“What about Brother Jamieson?” said
mamma, evidently unwilling to wait for God.
“The board of deacons is meeting tonight,
isn’t it? Why couldn’t you just bring the mat-
ter/up to them, ask them what they think of
it?) They know Adam, know he shouldn’t be
hurt. Why don’t you ——”

But papa did not raise his eyes from his
plate. “I feel a little backward about stirring
things up,” he said, “just new in town and all,
new on the board of deacons. They might
think I’m just trying to stir up trouble.”

“Well, talk to Brother Jamieson alone,”
said mamma, “then maybe he’ll take it up.”

“Maybe I ought to do that,’ said papa,
looking at his watch, wiping his mouth and
standing up. “The freight’s due through in fif-
teen minutes. I have to get back. I'll pray
about it,’ he said.

“Hallie,” said mamma, “‘you’re going to be
late getting back to school.”

But Hallie sat there, unable to move, un-
able to think.

“Why don’t you go back and take a nap?”
mamma said. ““You can miss school for once.
I'll say you had a headache or something.”

Hallie sleepwalked to the bedroom and
threw herself on the bed. She could not re-
member pulling the quilt up, but later when
she waked up the quilt was there and mamma
was calling through the screened door, “Hal-
lie, you won’t sleep tonight.”

She stretched. Her eyes felt better and her
legs felt right again. But she had not asked the
question she came home to ask. ““Mamma, did
Elberta get off all right?”

“Oh, yes, she got away all right..”” Mamma
folded the quilt and spread it over the foot of
the bed and smiled. ““Miss Beulah came by
before I went down to the station to see Al-
berta off. She looked around real quick to see
if Alberta were here, kept saying, ‘What about
Elberta, wonder what she’s going to do.’ But
she didn’t linger; I guess she was afraid she’d
miss something downtown.”

He’ll have to

papa said. “I’m praying

Hhanie was in the kitchen eating biscuits and
jelly when Miss Beulah returned that after-
noon. “Well, Lizzie Wallace saw Elberta
walkin’ to town holdin’ her head just as high
as you please. If it had happened to me I’d be
ashamed to show my face —

“Seems to me those fellows were ashamed
to show their faces too,”’ said mamma.

Miss Beulah looked amazed. “Why, Mrs.
Jones, I declare, you sound as if you didn’t
approve of the Ku Klux Klan. As Bubber
says, you just can’t have a community gettin’
a reputation for sin and lawlessness.”

“Does he belong?” asked mamma.

“Why, Mrs. Jones, I’m surprised to hear
you don’t know the Ku Klux Klan is a secret
society. Even if I knew I couldn’ tell. It’s a
Secreta

“Oh,” said mamma, and rubbed a coffee
stain on the tablecloth as if she thought it
might come out by her rubbing.

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“T really would like to know where that El-
berta went to,’’ said Miss Beulah. ““Where’d
Mr. Jones sell her a ticket to?”

“That’s a professional secret,”’ said mamma.
“Mr. Jones isn’t supposed to tell where people
buy tickets to. Lawyers have their secrets, and
doctors. And the Ku Klux Klan. And so does
Mr. Jones.”

Miss Beulah’s pockmarked face turned red.
She stood up, her head thrust forward, her
jaw set; she would be mad at mamma for
quite a while. “Well,” she said, pushing back
her chair, ‘‘good riddance to bad rubbish, I
say. Bad enough having that baby, but having
one with blue eyes and straight hair! I declare,
I never could see how you could afford havin’
that girl around here, what with your young
girls growin’ up and gettin’ ideas.”’

“The ideas they got from Elberta are not
the ones I worry about,” mamma said.

Tuesday, Hallie hurried home after school
to ask mamma what Brother Jamieson had
said to papa about Adam the night before.
But mamma had disappeared. Not knowing
what was happening made the quivering start
inside and grow into a kind of panic. Was
Adam all right now? She called for mamma
out the front door. If she were at the McGhees’
she would hear her, or even at Miss Beulah’s.
But there was no answer and she started to-
ward the depot, running to the corner and
slowing down, telling herself that nothing
could have happened. Nothing could happen
yet; it was too soon.

When she walked into the depot office
mamma was standing there talking to papa.

“Adam?” said Hallie, panting from her
run.

“‘He’s out in the warehouse,” said papa, as
if Hallie were simply making an inquiry.

Adam had been sweeping and when he saw
Hallie he came toward her, big, black, hitch-
ing up an overall strap.

“Hey, Hallie,’ he said, “I was in hopes
you’d come by.”” He wanted to see her too.
“IT was just leanin’ there thinkin’, ‘Now if
Hallie would come by I could ask her to do
me a little favor.’””

The trembling started in her chest again;
Adam was in trouble and he was asking her
help. She murmured, “Yes, oh yes,” hoping
she could do it, whatever the feat that should
be required of her.

Adam went to a dim corner near the en-
trance door and picked up a tomato can full
of roses. ““My roses just started bloomin’
around the shanty,”’ he said, ‘‘and when I saw
‘em I thought I'd pick a handful for Lucius’s
grave. But the freight’s kept me busy. I
thought, ‘If Hallie would come I could just
ask her to drop them off on her way home.’”’
He shook the water off the stems. “‘There’s a
vase up there, I reckon?”

“Yes,”’ said Hallie, weak, relieved, “I can
find one.”

“IT waited for you,” said mamma as she came
back into the office. Papa was busy at the tele-
graph table; mamma stood in the door, wait-
ing.

““Mamma, is Brother Jamieson going to
help?” Hallie asked as soon as they were out-
side.

“Well, Hallie, when it came right down to
it your father just didn’t get a chance to ask
him.”

“Didn’t even ask him?”

Nee Hallie,’ said mamma, “‘it’s not all
as simple and easy as you might think. He
was going to ask Brother Jamieson, but in the
end it just didn’t seem best to ask him.”

“But what will happen to Adam?” She
could feel the trembling in her chest again,
and in her voice.

“Now, Hallie,” said mamma _ almost
roughly, “Hallie, will you stop worrying?
Adam will be all right, anyhow, until next
Sunday. Mr. Bird never comes down except
on Sundays and Adam’s sure he’ll hear from
Mr. Bird again before anything happens.”

“Oh,” said Hallie again, telling the trem-
bling to cease.

“Now about your father and Brother
Jamieson,” said mamma. ‘“‘He left home all
set to ask him. You remember he went early
thinking he would have a little talk with
Brother Jamieson before anybody else came

for the deacons’ meeting. But Brother Jamie-
son had company. Mr. Jess Bailey.” (Mr. Jess
again!) ‘Brother Jamieson said right off to
your father that Mr. Jess had been considered
for a deacon for a long time and that he had
spoken to two or three other deacons and they
said why not, why not go ahead and make
him a deacon. Well, your father ——”

“Did you tell him, mamma, about Mr. Jess
and Elberta?”

‘Hallie, I just couldn’t. He was so upset al-
ready about Adam. I couldn’t add ——”

“Can they make Mr. Jess a deacon just like
that?”

‘Well,’ said mamma, shifting her sack to
the other arm, ‘“‘when the other deacons got
there the preacher immediately brought up
Mr. Jess and said he hoped they’d vote him in
that night, and in the same breath he went
on to say that Mr. Bird Ledbetter, even
though he’s a member of the Peachtree Square
Baptist Church up in Atlanta, still he had come
down to Greenwood and very generously of-
fered to give a stained-glass window for the

THE TRAVELERS

By FLORENCE B. JACOBS

We would all sit reading under the
lamp,
three generations together,

with applewood snapping, and
frosty panes
framing the steel-dark weather.

A sudden prescience might touch
my heart,
bring in the outside cold:
“Grandmother, mother, will still be
here,
lonely, perhaps, and old,
in a time when | shall have grown
and gone
to Limerick, Cornwall,
Devon."’...

But | stayed home and they went
away
farther than Scotland even.

front of the church in memory of his father
and mother.”

“But they wouldn’t want that,” said Hallie.

“What? Who? But they’re dead,” said
mamma. As if not understanding, she went
on, “Then your father realized, though he
couldn’t tell why, that there was some connec-
tion between Mr. Jess and the stained-glass
window and Mr. Bird Ledbetter. You know
they’re both after land. Mr. Jess has been go-
ing around buying up kaolin land cheap, and
Mr. Bird wants to buy back his old home
place. Your father thought then if it’s true Mr.
Bird’s going to run for something maybe he
wanted Mr. Jess to kind of manage things for
him down here. Maybe they’re somehow in
cahoots.”

“But, mamma, I don’t see ——” Hallie
squeezed the bouquet of roses and the thorns
pierced the paper and reminded her what she
was carrying and that the cemetery was across
the street. ““Papa could still have asked Brother
Jamieson ——”

Mamma seemed edgy again. “‘Now, Hal-
lie,” she said, “‘I want you to remember your
father’s doing the best he can.’’ She looked
away from Hallie; she seemed to be looking
into the past. “You remember he said he
would pray about it. He’ll pray ——”

She pulled away from mamma and ran
across the street to the cemetery, ran down a
lane of graves, her chest still racked with sobs,
skirted the rusty iron fence of the Fitzgerald
plot and came to the plot marked McGhee
where Lucius had been laid to rest. She stood
by the grave and wept, her eyes unseeing from
tears; then she took the faded daisies and
rusty water out of the tin can, added fresh
water at the faucet, and arranged Adam’s

roses. She had promised Lucius a magnolia:
soon she would have to steal one from the tree
in Mr. F.’s or Miss Beulah’s yard.

If Lucius could say, he would probably say:
he would rather lie here where the McGhee!
children could come and play than down in the
Tranquil churchyard near his folks. But what
would he say about a stained-glass window for
his father and mother in a church they did not
care for, given by a son who misunderstood
everything they said? What would that little
mountain girl who wanted to see the ocean say
about Bird who had seen it? ;

As Hallie dressed for the expression contest
on Friday night she had a comforting thought,
Perhaps Miss Corrine was nor going to ma
Mr. Jess Bailey. No announcement had ap-
peared in the Sunday Telegraph and not a sdbl
had ever really said for sure they were goime
to be married. She turned so Virginia could
fasten her in the back, thinking, hoping,
Maybe I made the whole thing up. Miss Corrine
may go off to school next year, and it won't hap-
pen after all.

“Hallie, we’ve got to hurry,” said Virginia} ™
““May Belle will be by any minute.”

Mis Corrine wore blue chiffon, the skirt
full and floating, the waist tight, and high-
heeled shoes dyed pink. Hallie could hardly}:
bear to look at her. Ever since last Sunday, inj)™
between worrying about Adam she _ had
thought of telling Miss Corrine about Mr.
Jess Bailey. She would write her a note, signed}!
‘An Anonymous Friend and Well-Wisher,” })™
Or perhaps a note to Mr. Barksdale: “‘Deai
Mr. Barksdale, I think you should know that
your daughter, Miss Corrine Barksdale, is}
about to make a great mistake. She is about)"
to marry a man who is the father of Elberta}
Smith’s child, Jonny. Signed, a Friend of the
Family.” i
But she had done none of these things be-| “|
cause once the words were spoken or the note}/*
read the light would go out in Miss Corrine’s
eyes. And thinking of her as she would look if}®
she knew what Hallie knew, she began to seel™
Miss Corrine as a person with an incurable} te
sickness, a cancer gnawing at her vitals, while! ©
she, Hallie, was caught in the position of afitt
doctor who knows the dreadful truth about}!
his patient and must decide whether or not
he should divulge it. PM
Yet on the outside Miss Corrine looked}:
happier and prettier each day. This evening)/Ml
after the girls had gathered in the studio, care-}*'!
fully arranging their recital dresses on the}
folding chairs, she said, ‘“Girls, I’ve something Fal
very special to tell you. I’m going to be married#f\\
to Mr. Jess Bailey.” She paused as they exejilii
pelled their held breaths with little ecstatic}™ |
screams. “I wanted to wait until near the end}")!
of school to tell you, so the younger children}* «i
wouldn’t get too excited.” put a
“Oh, Miss Corrine,” breathed Virginia, “J/}0u
think it’s just wonderful. Mr. Jess is so hand-iie
some, and you—well, you’re going to make/!10
the most wonderful couple.” ata
May Belle jumped up and hugged Miss Cor- 11.
rine and all the other girls clustered around!
Miss Corrine, all except Hallie. But in the ex-ftep
citement it was hardly noticed. Mrgin
“Are you going to have a big church wedefiy
ding?” asked Laura Fitzgerald. ap Cor
“Oh, Miss Corrine, I hope so,” said VirePShi
ginia. Pou:
‘*‘Well,’’ Miss Corrine said, “‘it is going to be Ign
a big wedding. It’s going to be all white; thepttil
men are going to wear white suits—even dov r ma
to Brother Jamieson. The bridesmaids a
going to wear white organdy, and the maid ¢
honor and matron of honor are going to weatfill,
white chiffon. And of course I’m going to wear
white satin.” ay <4
“Is Miss Toulou going to play?” asked}nia,
Laura. k
“I thought I'd have one of my friends from) {h
up in North Carolina play,” said Miss Co 7 Ie hi
rine. ‘‘She’s accustomed to playing with the? Sh.
violin and cello.” et With
“You're going to have more than the? \;
piano,” said Virginia. “How wonderful.” Pil)
Suddenly Hallie felt very hot and red at the®
thought of how silly she had been to think
Then Miss Corrine said, “I’ve been wonder™' ti
ing if you would help me,” and the room),
became quiet while each girl held her breatht}' \y

/ MARCH, 1962

-| “You know we’re going to have the recep-
» \tion at Magnolia Hall, and I was wondering
if I could count on you, my most advanced
. pupils, to help me out.”

“Oh, Miss Corrine,”’ they all cried, every-
‘one except Hallie, ‘toh, Miss Corrine, of
course.” . . . “You know anything you’d
ask ——’’ ‘‘We’d love to ——”’

_ “For example, I'll need someone to keep
the guest book.”

“Tet me, let me,’’ screamed the girls—small
| 2cstatic screams, of course.

Miss Corrine gave them each a job. “What
jo you want to do, Hallie?’ she asked and
»/ urned her warm brown eyes on Hallie.

“Well,” Hallie said, testing out her throat
vhich had been thickening with a large cry
| oubble that had oozed up from her stomach,
‘odged in her throat, and almost suffocated
yuer, “well, I think maybe I won’t be here.”

jhe had tried to prepare herself for this, but
ser voice did not sound as she had planned.
| “Won’t be here?” said Virginia. ““Where do
J you think you’re going?”
|) She could have killed Virginia. She an-
iwered in a funny strangled voice, “I’ve been
/hinking I'd make a little trip over to Glover
wvhen school’s out.”

Virginia’ said, “‘Mamma won't let you.”
=. “Well, Hallie,’ said Miss Corrine, “I hope
J/ou’ll change your mind. You know, I don’t
.}yelieve the marriage would be legal without
ou there.” She came over to Hallie and
ghtly put her hands on her shoulders, shook
‘er gently, affectionately. Then she turned to
re others. *““Now, it’s time for us to go in and
haven’t said a word about the contest. I
on’t think it’s important which one of you
ins tonight. What is important is that you do
ne best you can and show everyone how much
ou’ve improved during the year, you darling
irls.”’ As they marched out she stood at the
oor and gave them each a little pat.

| As they took their places Hallie tried whis-
yering to herself to see if any air was coming
p through her throat, which still felt thick
d tight, too tight to make a voice. What she
‘ould like to do was to rush off somewhere
the dark and cry. ‘In the black prison of
xe Conciergerie, the doomed of the day

aited their fate,’ ’’ she whispered.

Mr. Holden announced the boys’ declama-
‘yn contest and the first boy stood and began
) speak. His voice rose and fell, came to a
imax and dropped to a whisper, but he said

“

owed by a rattle of applause.
Finally the boys filed down and the girls
ok their places; six of Miss Corrine’s pupils

aig. Mary Beth Dozier was first. She began
pwly, her voice pitched low, making her o’s

.., proached the climax her voice rose higher
~ Wd higher, grew more and more nasal, more
* §d more like a girl from tHe Flatwoods.
Laura Fitzgerald had a long piece that she
d in a flat monotone—an. absentminded
ice as if she were somewhere else, not there
the platform at all.

Virginia was next. Suddenly Hallie longed
Virginia to say her piece well and win for
ss Corrine. She had never before thought of
ginia’s winning, had only thought of her-
f, but now she longed for Virginia to win.

_ Nirginia could do The Highwayman piece
autifully. Her voice sank deep when she
, ‘One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m
er a prize tonight,’’’ and when the land-
‘4d’s daughter let down her hair in the case-
Ent, a “‘ ‘black cascade of perfume,’”’ and he
sed its waves in the moonlight, the audience

Tht. She had been tied up by King George’s
, with a musket at her breast and she
ited with the soldiers for her lover in the
jonlight. “‘T7/ot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they
ird it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; T/ot-
, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf
they did not hear?’” Virginia asked the
tion and paused—a long pause. Suddenly
‘he listening silence, like a shot from the

back row of seats, came a long; high horse
whinny that resounded in the silence of the
hall and seemed to strike Virginia like a
physical blow. There was a tittering in the
audience and a rustling as the high-school
pupils turned to see who had made the
whinny. Virginia pulled herself up again, tried
taking a deep breath, struck out, and said
loudly, too loudly, “‘Down the ribbon of
moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The
highwayman came riding, Riding, riding!”
But something had been lost. The audience
was restless. When Virginia had finished,
Hallie tried to look into her eyes to show her
sympathy, but Virginia came back to her
place with her head lowered and her face red.

Now it will have to be me, thought Hallie;
it will just have to be me. I'm the only one who
can win for Miss Corrine. May Belle Ballard
was reciting now, but May Belle was too silly
and she twittered. She could not win.

Margaret Craig was next. She had been
quiet and composed listening to the others;
only occasionally she flung back her red curls
with the air of a horse shaking its mane eager
to be off.

IAG May Belle sat down and the audience
gave its formal applause, Margaret Craig drew
herself up a little, gave her curls a last shake,
then stood and walked to the front of the
stage. She wore a sea-green watered taffeta the
color of her eyes. It shimmered in the light and
suddenly Hallie thought that Margaret might
be what she always pretended to be—a bud-
ding actress, a girl awaiting a glorious future,
one with Theda Bara, Mae Murray or even
Mary Pickford.

Margaret Craig announced her piece in a
calm, subdued voice: ‘*‘Engineer Connor’s
Son,’ by Will Allen Dromgoole,” she said, her
voice low, almost as low as Brother Jamieson’s
when he began a sermon. The first climax
came soon. Engineer Connor was brought
home in a caboose, both legs mashed and an
arm gone. Every man had jumped from the
engine but him; he had stuck with his train
and reached home with only enough life left
to gasp out, “I leave your mother to you. Take
care of her, my little man.” Hallie’s throat
curdled with sadness, though she told herself
that Miss Corrine would not approve. She
would never give one of them a piece like that.
Margaret Craig was speaking quietly again—
Little Jack’s mother had gone away, had
fallen under the train and died—then her voice
became charged with emotion as little Jack
died too. A long slow freight went through
with its mournful whistle as he greeted his
mother in heaven.

Hallie swallowed hard. The audience was
still for a moment, then there was loud ap-
plause and as it died away sounds of throats
being cleared. Margaret Craig sat down. Now
it was Hallie’s turn. She laid her handkerchief
in her seat and walked to the front.

“Look at me,’ Miss Corrine always said,
and Hallie looked at Miss Corrine as she said,
““*The Sacrifice of Sydney Carton,’ by Charles
Dickens.” But as she finished the last word
and prepared to step forward Mr. Jess Bailey
came down the aisle, tiptoeing and hunched,
making himself small as if he knew it was not
the right time to come in. Miss Corrine turned
and saw him; they gazed into each other’s
eyes. ‘The Sacrifice of Sydney Carton,’ by
Charles Dickens,” Hallie said again, because
suddenly the first line of her piece had gone
skittering off into the bushes like a snake. She
felt herself getting hot all over, a prickle of
sweat ran down her spine; but though she felt
hot and wet, her mouth was so dry that she
thought if a word were spoken it would fall
like a brown leaf dry and sere from the tree.
Again she opened her mouth and the words,
“**The Sacrifice of Sydney Carton,’ by Charles
Dickens” rustled out between her teeth. Now
Miss Corrine turned from Mr. Jess Bailey and
sat forward, staring at her, forming words with
exaggerated gestures of the lips. Hallie tried to
read the words, thought she would have to
give up, then heard them being whispered
from behind her. Virginia was whispering,
***In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the
doomed of the day. . .””’ and Hallie grabbed
the words as a dog would a bone.

After she had started, it was all right. She
went through the whole piece, holding the

pauses, rounding her o’s, raising her voice,
lowering her voice, doing everything that Miss
Corrine had told her to do, everything. But
she knew that she had lost all.

Lois Adams was the last speaker, and she
did not count one way or another. She had
never had a chance. Miss Corrine had put her
on the program only because she was a senior.

Miss Naomi Featherstone announced that
one of her pupils would play a selection on the
piano while the judges made their decision.

“Now,” said Mr. Holden, ‘for the boys’
declamation contest: second place, Teddy
McGhee for his excellent piece “Give Me
Liberty or Give Me Death,’ by Patrick

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129

Henry.” Applause. “‘First place to Henry
Featherstone for his inspiring delivery of ‘A
Message to Garcia,’ by Elbert Hubbard.
Henry, if you keep on like this we'll see you
in Congress before you’re very old. Now,”
said Mr. Holden, looking at the paper again,
then straightening up, “now I take great
pleasure in announcing, second place to Miss
Virginia Jones, for her excellent poem, “The
Highwayman.’”’ There was applause and in
the middle of it a whinny, and somebody
said, ‘Whoa, there.”” Mr. Holden went on
hurriedly, looking hard at the back row of
seats, ““Now for the first-prize winner, I am
very pleased to announce that Miss Margaret

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Craig wins the medal for her touching rendi-
tion of ‘Engineer Connor’s Son.’”’ The audi-
ence clapped and cheered. Miss Bootsie
Craig’s frowzy head shook with pleasure. But
Hallie could not look at Miss Corrine; she
could not bear to see her face.

The girls stood, and Hallie pushed past Lois
Adams to the exit on her side. Miss Corrine
would come up and tell them how well they
had done and how proud she was of them; she
might even give them a hug in her wonderful
loving way. But Hallie could not bear any of
it. She started for home. Under the dark trees
and close to the shrubs near the sidewalk she
would not be seen by anyone. She would run
and get there ahead of them.

Two cars filled with laughter and loud talk
passed her and she slunk over toward the
hedge. Were they laughing at her? “That poor
little Jones child, couldn’t you have just died?
Honestly, I just wanted to go through the
floor, it was so awful.’’ Miss Corrine would
not pass her; she would have driven toward
Magnolia Hall with Mr. Jess. Miss Corrine
still did not know his perfidy. Would no one
have the courage to tell her? They would ride
close together down the dark road, Mr. Jess
kissing Miss Corrine softly on the back of the
neck, as she had once dreamed of him kissing
her, as he had kissed Elberta. He would be say-
ing, “But who cares who won that old expres-
sion contest? It doesn’t matter as long as we
have each other, does it?”

Papa had taken mamma’s advice and
talked to Mr. Craig about Adam. Mamma
told her about it on Saturday. Mr. Craig had
been away on business when the Ku Klux Klan
rode and that was a disadvantage too. Mr.
Craig said so himself; he said right away to
papa he was sorry he had not been in town,
then he would have some evidence. Then papa
said what about the letter for evidence, the
one that was left on Adam? Mr. Craig said,
“What does the letter say’? and papa an-
swered, “Get out of town or—and then pic-
tures of skulls and crossbones.”” Mr. Craig
said he didn’t see what he could do about
that; he’d have to know the handwriting of
every man, woman and child in Plum Branch
County—miaybe even in Macon. Best to keep
quiet about the whole thing, he said.

Hallie had stayed near home all day Satur-
day, too drained and ashamed to show her
face in public after the expression contest.
But this news about Mr. Craig made her for-
get her own shame.

*Tomorrow’s Sunday,” she said to mamma
as they talked in the kitchen,

“I know, Hallie, | know. Honey, don’t take
it so hard. We'll think of something. Your
father says maybe he ought to persuade
Adam

“To go?”

“Well, yes,” mamma said, putting another
piece of wood in the stove. “Your father would
hate to see him go. But maybe it would be bet-
ter in the long run.”

‘

Munda She had waited with fear and
trembling for Sunday. And now it was Sunday
and Miss Corrine sat in the choir next to Mr.
Jess. They were an engaged couple now; they
had the right to turn loving eyes toward each
other. He had the right now to lean toward
her and whisper something, actually brush-
ing some stray curls aside with his nose to
speak more closely. He had the right now
since the news would undoubtedly be printed
in the Macon Telegraph today.

Yesterday May Belle and Virginia had spent
the whole afternoon trying on dresses and
talking about the wedding. They had nothing
suitable in their own wardrobes, they said,
and they decided they would have to make
identical white organdy dresses to do honor
to the sacred duty of handling the guest book.
Hallie knew that May Belle and Virginia would
spend the afternoon together leafing through
copies of the Ladies’ Home Journal looking
for a pattern for their organdy dresses, trying
on makeup and doing their hair different
ways. All for the hateful wedding. She could
tee] nothing but pain when she heard the
word “‘wedding.”’

As she sat in church that Sunday her fear
and trembling for Adam pushed the pain of
She watched front

the wedding away the

entrance for Mr. Bird. Sunday was his day to
come to Greenwood; if he came today

Miss Toulou played a little louder as
Brother Jamieson came out from behind the
pulpit and took his place in the carved chair.
It was almost time to begin. Perhaps Mr. Bird
would not come. O Lord, let Mr. Bird not
come. Let him stay in Atlanta. Let his Pierce
Arrow be broken down so he cannot leave Ma-
con. Now there was someone at the door hur-
rying in. Mr. Barksdale. Only Mr. Barksdale
in a white linen suit, hurrying to get into his
pew before the Doxology.

Miss Toulou rambled her little piece around
to a point where she could crash into the Dox-

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ology and Brother Jamieson walked forward
to the pulpit and raised his arms for the con-
gregation to stand. “Praise God from Whom
all blessings flow,” they sang, “praise God ——”
There was a movement at the door again; Mr.
Bird Ledbetter stepped inside apologetically
and slid into a pew.

So Mr. Bird was here. She gripped her Sun-
day-school paper and Bible; there was no use
running to warn Adam. He would be off
preaching somewhere, not in his shanty. No
use running; and settling down to stay, she
resolved that she would never plan again. She
had thought up the plan that Mr. Bird was
now carrying out; she had planned that he

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food “not too hot, not too cold, but just right,” there’s an electrically heated

should come back and rescue Montpelier
from the Duckets; she had planned that he
should turn them out and restore Montpelier
to its former glory. She had planned it all, but
not that it should happen this way. Not this
way.

“*The Lord is my shepherd,’’’ intoned
Brother Jamieson, beginning his Bible reading
in the Psalms, “‘I shall not want.’ Papa
should talk to Mr. Bird, appeal to him, recall
the days of his childhood when he rode on
Adam’s back to visit the waterfall. ‘** hie
down in green pastures . . . leadeth me beside
the still waters >’ It was a description of
the country Lucius’s mother loved. Of course

Moi,

three-compartment baby dish. For meals at any hour, an electric bottle
warmer that plugs in anywhere and shuts off with an audible click for the
drowsy watcher. New for use at home or abroad is a nurser set with dis-
posable sterilized inserts for formula which substitute for bottles (they)
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the baby colic, too, since the collapsing container has less room for al

include his usual daily foods in infant-size jars (meat, vegetables, fruit and
puddings); packages of cereal; and enough formula or boiled whole milk for
a short visit. Because baby’s jars and appetite are small, his weekend meals
pack into a small neat bundle; his own feeding set of carefree stainless steel
includes porringer, mug and a long-handled spoon which is scaled down for
his small mouth and also dips easily into the little baby-food jars. To keep

INV

MARCH, 1962

she had liked running water better, but she
would have liked still waters too.

Miss Toulou Vass began the music for the
offertory and papa went forward to help take
‘the collection. After Brother Jamieson gave
vhanks for the gifts received he announced
‘hat at the last meeting of the board of dea-
sons a new deacon had been chosen, Brother
Jess Bailey, and that he would be ordained
ifter regular preaching service next Sunday.
allie could not look at Miss Corrine, fearing
she blushed with pride.

Then after a suitable pause Brother Jamie-
on stepped forward to one side of the pulpit
ind said intimately, “I have a happy surprise

t
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)

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for the congregation this morning. I take great
pleasure in announcing that Brother Bird
Ledbetter, though a member of our sister
church, the Peachtree Square Baptist Church
in Atlanta, in his generosity has offered to
give us a stained-glass window for the front of
the church as a memorial to his dear father
and mother who lived some years ago in this
county. His father was a veteran of the War
Between the States.”

Everyone turned to look at Mr. Bird as
Brother Jamieson finished. Oh, butter would
not melt in his mouth, Hallie thought, her
stomach feeling a little sick, her throat tight
again. She despaired. It would do no good for

papa to speak to Mr. Bird, a man who had no
more feeling for his father and mother than to
give a stained-glass window in their memory
to a church his father would not set foot in, a
man who would mask himself and frighten a
Negro who had carried him as a small boy.

Brother Jamieson chose to read from St.
Luke—she listened hard to run away from her
thoughts—Chapter 15, verses 3 to 7 (here Jesus
carried the lamb, the lamb lost and now
found, on His shoulders rather than in His
arms). Brother Jamieson took the verses, in-
toned them, began kneading them into shape,
fitting them into the sermon rhythm, begin-
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131

No, there was no use talking to Mr. Byrd.
From now on he would be B-y-r-d, not B-i-r-d.
Then who, who could save Adam? The Feath-
erstones? What about Mr. Willy Featherstone?
But she knew he could not help her. Could
not or would not? One and the same. He was
weak—or worse; not only weak, but wicked,
evil, with his mindless sayings, his whinny of
laughter.

“Ninety and nine,” roared Brother Jamie-
son. This was the peak, the crisis, for after that
he spoke softly about the one lamb left out of
the fold, the one that caused the rejoicing. His
voice sank to a whisper at the end, and his
head fell forward on his bosom and the con-
gregation sat very still, awed by the awe with
which Brother Jamieson was moved by his
own sermon. He stepped back, and said, “‘Is
there anyone here present who would like to
add his testimony to mine, who would like to
testify to the love of the Shepherd for His
sheep? Look into your hearts and speak.’’ He
did not look directly at papa, but this was his
usual Sunday-morning announcement and
usually papa responded. Heads turned in
papa’s direction. But papa sat studying the
floor, not hearing. Brother Jamieson said,
“Will Brother Jones lead us in prayer?”

Papa slid to his knees, raised his face to the
ceiling, closed his eyes tight and addressed God.

Pa prayed in riddles. He could not say,
even to God, “Help Adam,” or, ““Help me,”
when he prayed in public. She and mamma
knew his real prayer, but would anyone else
within the sound of his voice know that the cry
was “Help Adam, help Adam’’?

She opened her eyes and looked up as papa
prayed on, looked at the stained-glass window
beyond the choir. “Friend to the Friendless,”’
she read. “In Loving Memory of Adelaide
Wingate Barksdale.’ Mrs. Barksdale had
restored the dovecote, had loved to see the
white birds fly up. . . . Right now on the other
side of the church Mr. Byrd sat planning his
next step. Panic and desperation surged in her
chest. They must find someone—if not Mr.
Willy Featherstone, who was born in Mag-
nolia Hall, what about Mr. Barksdale who
lived there now?

Simply because she was desperate she pulled
out her pencil used as a marker in her Bible
and wrote on her Sunday-school paper,
“Could Mr. Barksdale help? Ask papa.”

“Help us find the way, Lord,” papa prayed.
“Let us go forward in Thy name—for Thine is
the power and the glory forever. Amen.”
Brother Jamieson echoed ““Amen” and papa
rose from his knees and slid into his seat. As
Brother Jamieson announced a hymn Hallie
showed the Sunday-school paper to mamma.
She read the words and touched papa on the
arm with the paper. He looked at it, took in
the message, and his lips twisted into some-
thing like a smile. He nodded toward Hallie.
and he formed “Yes”’ with his thin lips.

Papa said God had spoken through her. He
came back from the depot on Sunday after-
noon, and Hallie, watching, still trembling
inside, came down from the tree to meet him.
“Daughter,” he said solemnly, putting his
hand awkwardly on her shoulder, ““God spoke
through you,” and an aura of holiness de-
scended on Hallie. She did not have to say to
papa “Adam?” or “Mr. Barksdale?’’; the
answer, the release and the holiness all
descended at once to sit on her shoulders like
doves lightheartedly cooing.

It lasted, this newfound ease and light-
heartedness. It lasted all the time papa told
about his talk with Mr. Barksdale and Mr.
Barksdale’s later report to him. Immediately
after church papa had approached Mr. Barks-
dale and drawn him aside and found the
courage to speak to him about Adam and his
trouble.

Mr. Barksdale stood thinking for a minute
and then—and this papa repeated with an
apologetic blushing of pride—Mr. Barksdale
said, “It takes someone like you, Brother
Jones, to point out the man fallen upon by
thieves.’ Then he shook hands with papa and
hurried away.

Mr. Barksdale drove out to the Fitzgeralds’
even before he returned to Magnolia Hall for
his Sunday dinner. By the time he arrived Mi
Byrd and the others were gathered around the

192

table. Mr. Barksdale said he was mighty sorry
to disturb them at their Sunday dinner, but he
was passing by and would like to speak a few
words privately with Mr. Byrd Ledbetter.
Mr. Byrd, gracious and obliging, came out
to the porch and he and Mr. Barksdale sat
together on the steps. Mr. Barksdale said that
there was a rumor that Mr. Byrd was trying to
buy his old home place back. Mr. Byrd said he
had been thinking about it, thought he might
come down weekends for the fishing; he had a
lot of friends up in Atlanta who liked to go
fishing. Then Mr. Barksdale said, was he to
understand that Adam was willing to sell?
Mr. Byrd said, well, he had had a little talk

LET HIM LIVE =e
WITH THE PIGS Sopp =

Tong Chin lived in a mountain village
on the East Coast of Formosa.
home was a shed which was part of
He was in rags, couldn’t
He ate with
his hands and his mother was anxious
to get rid of him saying, “‘He can’t do
anything. He only eats.” Her attitude
explains why instead of living with her
He couldn’t
run away because he was blind. A
the one he

But visit
Children’s

a pig pen.
speak Chinese, only tribal.

he existed with the pigs.

more hopeless future than
faced is hard to conceive.
him now in a Christian

with Adam; actually he and Adam had been
having a little discussion about the price.

Then Mr. Barksdale said he did not know
who the rowdies could have been who had
gone around threatening an old Negro, par-
ticularly one who had the good reputation
Adam had, a preacher, decent, minding his
own business, knowing his place.

Mr. Byrd said he was shocked and horrified
to think of anyone threatening Adam. Mr.
Barksdale said he was greatly relieved to hear
from Mr. Byrd’s own lips—though of course
he had never suspected it—that there was no
relationship between the offer to buy back the
Ledbetter old home place from Adam and the

aernx tee

His

Fund Home for the Blind and listen to

him recite his lessons and play part of a classic on the piano. In just
a couple of months he has become a clean, bright and extremely
appreciative boy. Modern teaching methods for the blind can

accomplish miracles.

But what about the other needy blind or crippled,

tubercular,

leprous, deaf and children who are normal except for their cruel
hunger? Some of them do not even have a roof over their heads and
sleep in the streets—these refugee, cast-off or orphan children
without a friend or guidance and who are neglected like a stray dog—
these forsaken children whom mercy passes by?

Christian Children’s Fund can rescue and properly care for only

as many of them as its income permits.

Such children can be

“adopted” in Formosa or any other of the 45 countries listed below
and the child’s name, address, story and picture with the privilege
of correspondence is provided the donor. The cost to the donor is
the same in all countries, ten dollars a month.

Christian Children’s Fund, incorporated in
1938, with its 415 affiliated orphanage schools
in 46 countries, is the largest Protestant
orphanage organization in the world, assisting
over 36,000 children. It serves, with its affiliated
homes, over 35 million meals a year. It is
registered with the Advisory Committee on
Voluntary Aid of the International Cooperation
Administration of the United States Govern-
ment. It is experienced, efficient, economical
and conscientious.

COUNTRIES :

Austria, Belgium, Bolivia, Borneo, Brazil,
Burma, Cameroun, Canada, Ceylon, Chile,
Egypt, England, Finland, France, Greece, Hong
Kong, India, Indonesia, Iran, Israel, Italy,
Jamaica, Japan, Jordan, Kenya, Korea, Lap-
land, Lebanon, Macao, Malaya, Mexico,
Okinawa, Pakistan, Philippines, Portugal,
Puerto Rico, Rhodesia (North), Rhodesia
(South), Scotland, Spain, Syria, Taiwan
(Formosa), Thailand, Turkey, United States
(Indian, negro, white), Vietnam (Indochina),
Western Germany.

For Information Write: Dr. J. Calvitt Clarke

I wish to “adopt” a boy ( girl (J for

one year in
(Name Country)

I will pay $10 a month ($120 a year).
Enclosed is payment for the full year
O first month [. Please send me the
child’s name, story, address and picture.
I understand that I can correspond with
the child. Also, that there is no obliga-
tion to continue the adoption.

CHRISTIAN CHILDREN’S FUND, INC.

Richmond 4, Virginia

I cannot “adopt” a child but want to
help by giving $

(Please send me further information.
NAME

ADDRESS

CIDY.
STATE

Zone

Gifts of any amount are welcome. Gifts
are deductible from income tax.

item, wo.

“Eo fh:

visit of the Ku Klux Klan. “Seems to me that
for a fellow running for office a suspicion like
that would be a bad thing,” Mr. Barksdale
had said, “‘since it is very well known in
Greenwood that your own brother Lucius was
taken in by Adam when he was sick unto
death. Folks might say that was a funny way
to pay him back.”

Then Mr. Byrd got very red in the face and
said he would like to meet the scoundrels who
were trying to deal him this blow below the
belt. Why, it was a vile insinuation; his re-
lationships with the colored race had always
been the very best, and furthermore he and
Adam had been raised together. “Why,” he
said, “I remember being toted all over Tran-
quil woods on Adam’s back.”

Papa paused and took a swig of buttermilk.
His throat must be dry from talking.

“Tt will be all right for Adam, then?’’ asked
Hallie. ‘Adam will be all right?”

“You don’t need to worry about Adam
now, honey. Brother Barksdale said he was
sure it would come out all right.”’ Papa said it
in a tone of blessed assurance that God would
look after His own. Then papa said, looking
prouder than ever, “‘He said I should call him
Brother Barksdale.”

Mamma said, ““He’s a fine man.”

“Brother Barksdale really took it upon his
heart,” papa went on. “He got to thinking he
ought to talk to someone else just to find out
for sure that no one else held anything against
Adam. Then he thought of Jess Bailey, going
to be his son-in-law. Decided it would be a
good idea to talk it over with him; thought
he’s a young man, might have heard some
whispering about who was in the Ku Klux
Klan that night. Mr. Jess shook his head and
said he thought probably some of the boys
were just pranking around with Adam; he
imagined that the whole thing would blow
over.”

Papa said Hallie had been touched by God
and he had thanked her and thanked God for
her having spoken out. Now she felt moved to
speak again. ‘“‘But what about Mr. Jess and
Miss Corrine? What about Magnolia Hall?”
And she knew that this was the cry that had
been in her heart since Elberta had told them;
this was the cry that had tightened her throat
for the expression contest, the cry that must be
cried and now was the time to cry it.

“Oh, Hallie,’ said mamma, and shut her
eyes.

Then Hallie wished she had not said it, and
hung her head over her plate.

“T would’ve spared you,” said mamma to
papa. “I did spare you during the trouble with
Adam, and I would keep on sparing you if I
might.”

Papa’s harassed face became as sad and
tormented as the face of Jesus. He said, “‘I can
drink from the cup if I must

“Well, Elberta told me the night she came
to tell about the Ku Klux Klan leaving the
note—she told me who the man was ——”

Papa pushed back his chair and sat there
without moving. “Hallie knows too?” he
asked.

“She knows,” mamma said; “she was up,
too, and heard.” She did not say, *‘She listened
when I told her not to.”

Px glance roved the four corners of the
room, looking for help from the ceiling and
from under the table and behind the stove.
Finally he said, ‘‘It has something to do with
Magnolia Hall, with Brother Barksdale?”

“Yes,”’ said mamma.

Papa stood up and pushed in his chair.
“Jonny’s father,” he said. “I won’t ask any
more.”

“What can we do?” asked mamma, and
when no one answered she went on, ‘‘There’s
nothing we can do. I told Hallie. I told her all
along. There’s nothing we can do.”

They stared at Hallie now and she did not
know whether they stared because they hated
her for asking the question or because they
thought that God might speak through her
again and tell them what to do. She waited for
the light to come. None did.

Papa said, *“‘There’s nothing we can do
except never tell.’’ He picked up his B.Y.P.U.
paper and his Bible. ‘Never tell anyone,’’ he
said. “It would break too many hearts.”

“That’s what I said,» mamma said.

SS ee SEEN SS ee) ee ae a eee

“But it’s wrong,” Hallie cried, and the tight-
ness in her throat came back, the tightness that
could be dispelled only by shouting so the
world could hear that it was wrong, wrong,
wrong.

School ended and there was a week to live
through before Miss Corrine’s wedding. Hallie
spent a great deal of time lying on her back in
the tree house, thinking of nothing; she was
enveloped in a green-tinged mist filled with -
small bird sounds.

One morning mamma said, “Hallie, honey,
are you all right?”

Hhanie could have cried then. She was being
offered the chance to cry by mamma’s look,
and if she cried mamma might even suggest
that she go over to Glover on a visit for 7
while.

But she did not cry. She said, ‘I’m all right. s

“IT know how you feel,’ mamma said. “I
think you’re doing awfully well. It’s wrong, of
course it’s wrong—we know that. But saying
it’s wrong won't help. You just don’t know
how much trouble and sadness we’d cause” —
mamma closed her eyes just thinking about
it—‘‘if we breathed a word of this. How much
better for everyone if only you and I and your
father know.”

“But Miss Corrine? And Magnolia Hall?”

“It won’t help, Hallie. You must believe ;
me. It won’t help.”

Hallie said nothing more, her throat thick |}
with the injustice. “Do I have to go to the wed-
ding?” she asked.

Mamma reflected for a moment. ‘‘Go if you
can, Hallie. You don’t have to, but go if you
can?

Until the moment came to get dressed for
the wedding Hallie was uncertain whether she |
could go or not. Virginia and May Belle i |
dressed in the back room—dressed there, it |
seemed, all afternoon. They came in to early |)
supper in kimonos, their heads tied in hand-—
kerchiefs, their faces looking skinned. Seeing
her sitting at the table in her everyday |
clothes, May Belle said, “Hallie, when you
going to dress? You're going to be late.”

She opened her mouth to say she was not
going, but that required explanations she was |} "\
not prepared to give. She followed May Belle
and Virginia back to the untidy room and | , .
dived into the closet for her blue taffeta. iz

No one had prepared her for the splendor | I pl
of the church lighted by tall white candles in-
stead of bare bulbs, or for the hushed music }
played by the trio. She felt at once that she
should not have come, but mamma and papa |
sat between her and the end of the- pew, and J l
there was a commotion at the doors and a fee | hy

ake

sa. te-

7 dee

ing of expectancy in the music.

She lived, trembling inside, while Miss Cor J."
rine walked down the aisle on Mr. Barksdale’s | agi
arm, her chin tucked inside a calla-lily cup, } +
lived—that is, lived outside, died inside— J!
when Mr. Jess Bailey, tall, golden and pure- |
looking, came in with his best man. She live
through it all, suffered through it all, until the,
bride and groom stood together in front af
Brother Jamieson, Brother Jamieson speaking |
the service in a resounding, deeply significant i
voice. Then, looking around at the congrega- ||
tion, his glance rested on Hallie, stopped there, |
pierced her to the quick (was this glance a,
slanting sunray from the sounding board of
God?), he said, “If any man can show just,
cause why they may not be joined together m
holy matrimony, let him speak now or els€
hereafter forever hold his peace.’ Ha
pierced to the heart by the question, for on
last wild moment thought God had spoken
that she must stand and say yes, cry out yeg i
there was a reason. Then Brother Jamieso!
took a breath, then a step forward; the
ment was passing and now she knew she woul ould
not do it, could not do it, and she settle Hi ha
back into the seat, torn with regret. She ha hl Vf
deliberately shaken off the hand of God, and)’*) ©
yet she was relieved that her voice had not had) “0!
a strange will of its own. Making a period 1 0
Brother Jamieson said, ‘And now, dearly)“ s
beloved, whom God hath joined together let)),") %
no man put asunder.” ay

After that, how quickly it was over.
Jess turned to face Miss Corrine and s
raised herself on tiptoe and looked roving p
into his face and he into hers, as if all thei

arches
she No

A na
+4
meted

at Te n

| MARCH, 1962

lives had been gathered into this here and now
when they kissed. Then Mr. Jess helped her to
arrange her train, and they marched out.

When the crowd streamed out into the dusk
it was not like a Sunday crowd at all. Everyone

who had a party dress was wearing it, and in

the yellow, orange, red, green and pink crepe
de Chines and organdies and taffetas the girls
seemed to glow like Chinese lanterns in the
_ dusk. But she felt no glow. She looked at the
ground to shut out the glowing crowd. She
could not go to Magnolia Hall. Mamma put
out her hand and took her arm, but Hallie
hung back even more. Mamma put one arm

_ around her and hugged her, and seeing her
| edge away, papa said, ‘““Where’re you going,
” Hallie?” and she said, ‘“‘Home.”

“But aren’t you going down to Brother
Barksdale’s?”” he said, frowning his Sunday
frown, as if always Brother Barksdale were
the important one, and she was about to say
- she knew not what—wondered if she would
_ ever know the time for truth again—when
mamma said:

NEXT
MONTH

What deadly bond linked the dead girl
with a murdered parish priest? What
as the connection between a woman
ho died of pneumonia gasping “great
)vickedness” and three old women who

oracticed black magic in a country inn?
Ww) Mark wasn’t sure; he only knew he
Wnust find out fast—or cause the death
wf the girl he loved.

t THE

PALE HORSE
. _ new mystery by Agatha Christie
“complete in the April Journal,
') condensed from the novel soon to
a) be published by Dodd, Mead & Co,
of
“|

"
i,

“I declare, Hallie has these headaches too
‘ten. I think we ought to get her some
asses,” and she hugged Hallie again.
‘Papa said, “I didn’t know she was sick.
other Barksdale said to me today he was
‘S\ @oking forward to seeing us all down there,”
‘9d mamma said, “‘Well, home’s the best place
her if she’s sick, / think.’’ Then, perhaps
membering the time years ago when he had
icked her on the porch in Gléver or perhaps
‘Wnking of last Sunday when God had spoken
ough her, papa leaned over and patted her
id said, ““Well, child, look after yourself.”
Tt was then, standing in the middle of the
dding crowd in the dusk, that she trem-
ed on the brink of conversion. ‘‘Accept,
Dept,” they said to her; the bright dresses,
© > starting cars, the glad voices, the vision of
+ Chinese lanterns at Magnolia Hall, all
oo'Sd, “Accept,” as if she heard the hymn.
w§) love that will not let me go, I rest my
soul in thee.” But she could not rest
weary soul, though she felt sorry for
a and papa, sorry for papa in his
wardness, sorry that he was timid, sorry
she- no longer liked to kiss him. And
mma? Oh, she felt sorry for mamma, too,
4 &) Wb would not have done what she had done
ef Elberta if Elberta had been blacker; she
~©%% sorry for papa who could not be a
_ S'Biphet; and she saw them awkward and
i) Wertain, offering her conversion. She could
_ju'Blsaved, could abandon herself, could rest
., (weary soul —— A good cry, finally a
, “Hd cry, and she could join the reception.
¢® Mamma held out her hand offering her
heartedness again, but she turned from
im, rejecting conversion, and walked to-
i i the house. As she entered the dark hall
Sf glanced at the piano in the living room,

“a

49%
ue

asi

blushed to think of herself as she was in those
romantic days when she thought she might
play the Wedding March. She went on back to
the kitchen, turned on the light and ran a
dipper of water, stood drinking it and think-
ing of that other liquid now being served
down at Magnolia Hall, pink punch with
peaches floating in it around a glacier of ice.

She went back to the bedroom, took off
her shoes and lay down, still in her blue taffeta.
She thought of Miss Corrine standing in her
white satin wedding dress in the reception
line at Magnolia Hall. Couples would stroll
out under the Chinese lanterns and under the
trees and the musicians would play something
soft and beautiful that would float out through
the tall windows into the night.

She tried to stop thinking of the hateful re-
ception. She thought of the evening, of the
rest of it and how she would get through it;
thought of tomorrow and how she would get
through it; thought of the summer made up
entirely of dog days, stretching out, stretching
out. She feared she would always be filled with
this vague unease; filled, yet empty, except for
a hard gristle of guilt undissolvable by simple
offerings of flowers and rusk. Oh, she should
have cried, she should have railed. But when?
Where and to whom? Resisting conversion
and staying away from the reception were
hard; yet even harder things would be asked
of her in the future.

She closed her eyes at the thought and tried
to turn to a happier time—those first days in
Greenwood when she had her dream of man-
sions. She leaned back on her pillow thinking
of the doves and the white horses. How she
had loved this fairy-tale country with its white
birds, white horses, white mansions filled with
aristocratic people sensitive to the beauty
around them. And entering this dream world,
deliberately entering it now to escape the
vision of the days ahead, entering it perhaps
for the last time, because she knew now it
was a dream country, she saw the pigeons
spread their tails and teeter on the roof of the
dovecote; saw the white horses dancing in the
green pasture, dancing on their shiny black
hooves, their pink nostrils flaring. The six
columns shone behind the magnolias and the
magnolias were in bloom, the air awash with
their perfume. The moon hung as round and
yellow as Margaret Craig’s medal from the ex-
pression contest; and Here Comes the Bride,
Miss Hallie Jones, in her white satin robes,
her chin nestled in a calla-lily cup, marching
to the anthem on the arm of her bridegroom,
a golden Southern gentleman whose name she
dared not say. Her two bridesmaids, May Belle
and Virginia, twins in white organdy, eaten
up with jealousy at her handsome bridegroom,
ran ahead and opened the double doors for
them. Now she entered the hall, her hall, and
she could see that the rosewood piano was be-
ing played by Miss Toulou Vass. Her bride-
groom leaned toward her and, after giving her
a long look as if he would swallow her, said,
**Ego amo te.’ Mamma was there wearing little
red slippers on her tiny, tiny feet; she was
hardly speaking to anyone because she was the
mother of the bride who lived in Magnolia
Hall. Papa was not chewing tobacco; he bowed
from the waist and greeted the guests like a Vir-
ginia planter. When absolutely overcome with
the desire to chew he went out to the porch and
lit a big cigar and blew smoke rings off at
the magnolias. White-turbaned servants
moved in the background or came forward
curtsying to the bride and groom, saying,
“Welcome, massa, welcome, little missus,
welcome, welcome.” Laura Fitzgerald passed
punch, the pinkest punch, and in the center of
the bowl, instead of ice, a white magnolia
floated. She, Hallie, gave a speech with Latin
quotations. When she finished the bridegroom
stepped forward and kissed her under the curls
on the back of her neck, and she could feel her-
self glowing, glowing and trembling like the
Chinese lanterns swaying in the breeze. She
glowed with happiness as the lanterns swayed
and glowed. ... Then a car door banged some-
where far away, voices called, a screen door
opened and shut in some other house, the
voices came nearer.

The reception was over. It was time now to
get up, time now to say good-bye to that sweet
dream. END

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L154

OUR BABY IS
EVERYBODY’S BUSINESS
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 81

at Lynne to rest—and filling breaches. The
diaper service didn’t begin until Monday; and
besides, if one’s own diapers were used, service
was extended another month. The answer was
more diapers, and more diapers arrived under
Mrs. Norman’s arm. But the company sup-
plied no pail! Horrors! A splendid diaper pail
magically appeared.

By the time the fifteenth arrived, and Jim’s
bank balance shot up by his semimonthly

When
the
occasion
calls

for

MOVING...

take-home of $190.14, Jeff was as accoutered
as a knight of old—or as the typical American
baby. He had everything for the foreseeable
future that one could think of—from water-
proof pants to party clothes—and Jim’s bank
was not busted. Maybe, after all—for Jeff was
a planned baby—he really would fit into their
budget. If they could just keep him within the
$50 a month they had already been paying out
since May, and if they held their breath
around the corners And then on the
sixteenth came another gift, a letter from Jim’s
company, the Canada Dry Corporation, from
its headquarters in Connecticut. They were
very pleased with Jim’s work during his first

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six months with them, and retroactive to
August first his salary would be raised $35 a
month. The retroactive check would be is-
sued shortly. ““We’re not going to touch this
raise!’ Jim told Lynne jubilantly. “‘Every
penny of it is to go to savings.” Lynne said
nothing, but she saw some very large corners
looming ahead—the obstetrician’s bill, the life
insurance Jim had talked of getting to assure
Jeff’s education, can upon can and jar upon
jar of baby food. However, she and Jim had
been successfully translating hopes into prac-
tice for three years together, and they were
well used to holding their breath in a pinch.

Lynne and Jim remember a few occasions
of happy solvency since their marriage in
1958, but the occasions of happy or just plain
tough insolvency have been a good bit more
frequent. In fact, if Jim hadn’t been insolvent
in 1958 they never would have met.

Jim, a Wisconsin boy, had run out of money
after three semesters at the University of Wis-
consin. He quit at the end of a semester in
January, “58, in a typical bold gesture. He
was twenty-four years old, had had four years
in the Air Force (another bold gesture taken
when he was seventeen), more than half of
them stationed in Germany and traveling
through Europe. His father, a successful sales-
man of heavy farm machinery, had always
encouraged independence in his sons, and Jim
had been a smart hand at earning money since
he had been old enough to shave—usually
enough to keep himself in a car. Matured by
the Air Force, he had come back and entered
the university on the G.I. bill, but the narrow
standard of living imposed by the U. S.
Government was not his. At the time he left, he
had a seven-year-old car and a vague plan to
raise a little surplus money and come back.

But his youngest sister Judy talked him into
driving west to visit their sister Betty, who had
recently married and moved to Oakland. Some
girl friends of Judy’s came along, and the girls
paid his expenses while he provided the car. It
was, as Jim calls it, “‘a crazy trip.”

[ he very night they arrived Betty invited
her best friend from the insurance company
where they worked, Lynne Norman, to meet
her dashing older brother. After dinner, they
drove to downtown San Francisco to show
the newcomers around. To Lynne, from the
self-contained Oakland area across the bay,
the sights were almost as new as they were to
Jim.

Jim says, ““We just window-shopped and
walked through Chinatown, but Lynne was
so excited she was like a magnet. I’d never
known a girl who had so much life. I said to
myself, ‘I'd like to marry this girl.’ ”’

He decided to stay awhile in San Francisco
(his female traveling companions had quickly
scattered), and he started dating Lynne im-
mediately. He confided his plans to Betty,
who warned him not to rush Lynne too fast
(Jim would say as he left in the evenings,
“O.K. if I kiss her tonight?”), and Jim re-
strained himself from February to early April
before he proposed. Meanwhile he got a job
selling vacuum cleaners door to door, and
boarded with Betty and her medical-intern
husband, paying them $15 a week. One month
he earned $1200 on commissions, the next al-
most nothing; the 1958 recession was deep-
ening.

Lynne did not say ““Yes”’ immediately. Jim
had come into her life as something of an ad-
venturer from the East, and, as she says, “I
wasn’t quite sure yet whether what I wanted
to do was the right thing to do.” In many
ways, she and Jim were opposites. He was
tall, blond and independent. Lynne was small
and dark, a cherished only daughter, with a
gay circle of school and college friends. Jim
had knocked about the world. Lynne had
never been farther from home than Santa
Barbara. Her paternal grandfather, a San
Francisco attorney, had been legal adviser to
Sun Yat-sen and then to Chiang Kai-shek
during the twenties and thirties, but her father
had his own public-accountant firm in the
quiet, well-to-do section of Piedmont. Lynne
had gone to Piedmont High School, where the
girls wore uniforms and juvenile delinquency
was almost unheard of. She had gone on to the
University of California at Berkeley, commut-

ee ee ee fg ON AS 1S Le Te

ing from home. As Lynne says, ““Everybody in
my family went to Cal—my mother, father,
cousins, aunts. It was just taken for granted my
younger brother Bob and I would go there
too.” She graduated in *57, and had had her
first job for just half a year when her friend
Betty invited her to dinner.

Saying yes to Jim undoubtedly called for
daring. but Lynne said it before April was out.
Part of her delay had been anxiety over what
her parents would think; and indeed, about
the time she broke the news to them, Jim
walked out on his vacuum-cleaner job in dis-
gust. Lynne’s parents had liked Jim from the
first, but they did wonder just what he in-
tended to offer their popular daughter. Lynne
herself was not in the least dismayed at Jim’s
prospects. ““‘We both knew he’d go back to
school and I would work. Kids were doing it
all the time.” 9 |

Jim got a job with a shaky young company#
manufacturing batteries, and a summer wed-
ding was talked of so he and Lynne could
return to the University of Wisconsin in Sep-
tember. But spring was in the air, and Jim’s
battery company suddenly went bankrupt. In
June the young people told Lynne’s parents that
if they married at once Jim could make a sum-
mer-school session in Madison. Why delay?

Lynne’s parents might have thought of sev-
eral reasons, but they faced the inevitable.
There was no longer time for a formal wed-
ding, so on Friday, June thirteenth, Jim and
Lynne arranged an “elopement” in which the
bride and bridegroom packed Jim’s old car
under everyone’s noses, and which was hand-
somely blessed by her parents with a trousseau
and a complete set of blankets and linens. ™
They were married that afternoon in Reno, in
a Presbyterian church, with the minister’s
wife as a witness. Their chief assets were about
$1000 in cash saved from Lynne’s job (she had
worked up to the moment of departure), her
parents’ presents and some shower presents in
the back of the car. Jim’s last paycheck from
the battery company had bounced, but as he
says, “I had saved enough to pay the minister *
myself.” Almost the last of his cash went to
make their wedding memorable. He had ™
bought a new suit, Lynne wore a new pink #4

HOW THE RANKINS SPEND
THEIR MONEY EACH MONTH

What They Get ‘
. $510.00} ,,

SEIEIS Ey 5. degeb oMo oc
Car-depreciation allowance : 43.00, sy,
$553.00 Fas
Where It Goes te
Federal income tax . . $61.80 Pr!
Social security tax 12.50

State income tax Seis tees 1.604 0:
4 percent state tax (estimated) . . . 4.509%
Food (including cleaning supplies) . . 68.00}
Baby’s expenses (food and vitamins, ein
$10.80; pediatrician, $8.75; medi-
cine, $2.50; diaper service, $7.20;
other, $1.50) . Se neko ice pee
Housing (rent, $105; utilities, $12; wa-
ter, $2.15; phone, $9; garbage col-
lection, $1.35; home equipment,
S150)! 2 ter ewer eae etenae, eee
Clothing (purchases, $22.50; launder-

30.7

ing, $8.67; dry cleaning, $1.50 . 32.67)) bee
Car (payments, $52.50; upkeep, $20; qe
depreciation reserve, $23) .. . 95. 5G
Health care (employee-plan contribu-* >) eal
tion, $7.36; other adult care, $7; oe
payments to obstetrician, $9) . . 23.4
Contributions, gifts . ..: >... =a
Life Insurance (employee contribu- ;
tion’ 7:50 GleS2:80) nase 10.31
Personal Care (barber, toiletries) 7.0
Advancement (magazines, mewspa-

pers, $3; Chemical Society member-

ship, professional magazines, books,

$367), < vy dena es eee
Recreation (including entertainment, ]

boating, sportsequipment) . . . . 24.0] Nom,
Miscellaneous (including tobacco). 11.3)/yj
Savings .. 1

$553.0) ty
Me,

Total

For an analysis of the Rankins’ budget, tur
to page 136.

erm mm

MARCH, 1962

iress and pink bandeau hat. Before the cere-
nony Jim stopped at a florist’s, made Lynne
vait outside, and came out with pink carna-
ions and white stephanotis for her to carry.

Their honeymoon was the trip to Wiscon-
in. In Waukesha they were warmly greeted
yy Jim’s father and stepmother and fell heir to
$500—Jim’s share of the sale of some family
yroperty. They reached Madison eight days
ifter they had left California, their stake of
51500 nearly intact.

Jim says now, “We were in the chips that
ummer.” The young couple found an unfur-
1ished apartment and spent most of their stake
urnishing it. Wedding presents such as dishes,
| toaster, began to come from California.
im’s G.I. allotment was $135 a month, and
yretty Lynne quickly found a job as a den-
ist’s receptionist at $275 a month. Jim says,
‘Lynne just chipped in right away, excited
nd happy. I was the one who had to adjust
9 her—Id never known anyone in the world
‘ould be so unselfish and uncomplaining.
Dr.” he adds with amusement, “so naive. For
xample, she’d hardly grocery-shopped in her
fe. She couldn’t cook, either. I was a pretty
ood cook after my years of bachelor life, so
je managed. Now she’s a good cook und a
pod shopper.”

) There was also the weather. Lynne, used to
akland’s marvelously equable climate,
und Wisconsin a place of man-eating ex-
mes. “I thought, ‘It’s too hot! It’s too cold!
/don’t really care for snow!” By October I
as telling Jim, ‘Honey, I'll never be colder
an I am right now.’ ”’

Their first summer was a rip-roarer. Jim,
ajoring in chemistry, studied from | A.M.
‘1 dawn in their ovenlike little apartment,
Hspt in the afternoons. In the evenings they
d to movie theaters. That winter broke local
cords for snowfall, and their second winter
Yoke records for low temperatures.

It was probably the brutal weather, in fact,
| t caused the downfall of their finances. Late
Mat first October Lynne came down with a
ep throat that developed into acute nephri-
@ Nephritis is a serious kidney disorder
Mich may follow a strep invasion plus chill-

ne was in the hospital with a ghost-white
y face, while Jim held her hand and told
everything would be all right. She had two
ions in the hospital and lost so much
ght on cortisone that she dropped to a
ken-eyed eighty pounds, but on a January
* when she felt grimmest her urologist told
“You're a young, healthy girl and there’s
eason why you shouldn’t recover without
.”’ With the odds against her, she
nded back unharmed, and by April she
back at work.

ook considerably longer for their reeling
nces to get back on their feet. When she
became ill Jim cut into his studies to take
art-time job at a biologicgl-research labo-
sry at $1.75 an hour. His hours were irregu-
and he doubts now if he ever brought their
athly income (including the G.I. allotment)
ve $275 a month—a puny match against
thospital and medical bills Lynne was pil-
up. But back in California the Normans,
Mrs. Norman says. “could never lose our
tern for our children.” Checks from Cali-
ja began to arrive. A flow of checks in
ember were all called “Christmas checks.”
Banuary and February, Mr. and Mrs. Nor-
sent $150 to Lynne’s doctor and clinic,
t another $76 on long-distance telephone
» In February. Lynne’s aunt paid Jim’s
ester tuition bill ($110). Her grandmother
fa $50 “Valentine’s Day” check, in March
aster’ check, and after that, since her
ess was greater than the number of holi-
| just plain checks every month until Jim
ated.

one of this money came from large
h. Lynne’s parents, though comfort-
| live modestly on a variable income and
Norman, a statistician, has always
ed with her husband; Lynne’s aunt is a
plteacher; her grandmother lives on a
income. It was money sent with anxiety
Ove. :
d Lynne and Jim stretched what money
nad. Jim had shot a buck in November.

They froze 80 pounds of meat and dined on
venison from November to May. By midwin-
ter, when Jim was flying from classes to job to
home to take care of Lynne, his °51 car com-
menced to lie down and die. First he had to
disconnect the battery every time he wanted
to turn off the motor, then the starter broke,
and he had to get a push to start. Lynne has
recollections of its breaking down on every
trip, of Jim lying underneath it in the snow on
Sunday afternoons, coming in to wash his
hands in warm water, then going out again.
Lynne doesn’t remember their buying any
clothes at all the whole time they were in
Wisconsin.

Hin recovery. began with Lynne’s
new job in April of ’59. This time she was a
receptionist in a medical clinic, beginning at
$225 a month—a lower income just balanced
by her grandmother’s check. Somehow, be-
tween then and the granting of Jim’s degree
in August of 1960, they squeezed out enough
money to pay almost all their debts to doctor
and hospital. Jim guesses that Lynne’s medical
bills totaled “about $1000,” but precise recon-
struction is now almost impossible. Some
(including the Normans’ contribution of
$150) was paid while she was still ill and con-
stantly incurring more. The only thing they
are sure of is that it was a long haul, and they
are proud to have managed it during Jim’s
student years.

In fact, the last half of Jim’s schooling was
a return: to happy insolvency. Lynne’s job
enabled Jim to plunge right on into summer
school. One day in July he came home looking
all fierce and demanded of Lynne, “What did
you do to the car?”

Lynne, aghast, said, “Honey, I don’t think |
banged into anything.”

“Come see!’ said Jim sternly, and led her to
his proud new acquisition—a °53 model, all of
two years younger than his former ailing heap.
Its cost, $450, was paid within the year. That
fall, Lynne’s family treated her to a week’s
vacation at home in California; she came back
with her first warm winter coat.

Jim had his last classes on August 12, 1960—
Lynne’s birthday. They didn’t waste a day.
They saw their furniture in storage that after-
noon and started for California at once. Both
want it clearly understood that their decision
to return to Lynne’s home area was unani-
mous. Jim says, “Our two years alone gave us
a good start, but opportunities are better in
California,’ and Lynne says, “Jim knew I'd
love to come back. But of course I left it to
him.”

They arrived at Lynne’s parents’ house
dusty (they had camped along the way, with
two cots and no tent) but more than welcome.
And Jim had the pleasure of returning a tried-
and-tested son-in-law. He had studied almost
without a break for two years and two months,
including three sessions of summer school.
He had a solid degree in chemistry. His eager
plans made clear his loose foot had been re-
placed by a businesslike ambition. And Lynne’s
devotion, which sri// tends to stand in her face
in Jim’s presence, must have been plain to see.
As Mrs. Norman says, “The fact that Lynne
was happy made us very, very happy.”

Jim was talking to the American Chemical
Society’s local placement bureau the day after
they arrived. As it turned out, he didn’t take
his first job until mid-October (a slim chance
of a better one delayed his choice), at the same
time that Lynne landed a temporary job as a
part-time salesgirl in the toy department of a
large department store. Overjoyed at this fine
start of a new chapter, they started apartment
hunting at once.

Meanwhile, the Normans fed and bedded
them (“‘They were our kids’). They had ar-
rived with $200 cash and needed “little more
than gas and pocket money ” but their first
paychecks didn’t come until November 1, and
before that Lynne was stuffing IOU’s for
small cash into an envelope marked “Lynne”
that her father kept in his desk. It was an en-
velope as capacious as the Normans’ affection
for their daughter. and Lynne says gratefully,
“We couldn’t have got along without it,” for
they found their present apartment, a lucky
find at $105 a month, before October was out.
Out of the envelope came advance rent, and in
went a large IOU.

“But,” says Lynne, ““we paid daddy back
with our first checks—all except sixteen dol-
lars. With our second checks we opened a
checking account, and the first check we wrote
was sixteen dollars to pay off our debt to
daddy. I remember arguing with him about
it. He kept tucking the check back in my
pocket, and I kept tucking it back in his. But
I won in the end.”

Jim was earning $450 a month, and Lynne’s
store job ($1.37 an hour) built up during the
Christmas rush until by Christmas week she
was working full time. They still lived simply.
They deferred sending for their furniture, still
stored in Madison, and furnished the apart-

135

ment piecemeal, mostly from the Normans’
house. The pieces ranged from two magnifi-
cent ironwood chairs and a teakwood table
from China to a cast-off sofa resurrected
from the Normans’ basement. A friend lent
them a braided rug to go with their Wisconsin
maple furniture that wasn’t there, and they
dined on a borrowed card table till May.
‘About the only thing we bought was a lamp-
shade.”

By the end of the year they had paid the last
of Lynne’s hospital bill in full and were a bit
ahead. At Christmas “‘we were able to give

CONTINUED ON PAGE 138

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MADE IN U.S.A.

136

NEW MONEY
PLAN FOR
BRAND-NEW
PARENTS

By SIDNEY MARGOLIUS

Consultant on Family Finances of the
Family Service Association of America

With a baby in the house, the Rankins are eager to get
off the paycheck-to-paycheck way of life that is partly
anaftermath of Jim’s college expenses and Lynne’s serious
illness. They have started on a four-point plan designed
to provide more-certain security in this financially criti-
cal stage of their life.

With the Journal's guidance, Lynne and Jim plan to:

1. Reduce immediately the finance charges they now pay
on their car, some needed clothing just bought on credit, and
other equipment, and then pay these debts at an accelerated
pace. (Finance charges have been costing them over $150
a year.)

2. Reduce their rent, which looms large in their expense
list, by pulling together the down payment for a home.
(Among other cash-raising measures, they plan to sell
some valuable outdoor equipment accumulated in Wis-
consin, which they now have little opportunity to use.)

3. Master the tax deductions applying to them, since a
couple with a baby has more chances of finding tax savers.
(Many young families are more awed by tax returns than
they really need be—to their disadvantage.

4. Develop a capital fund thal will enable them to meet
their expanding needs for cash. (Jeff's first-year expenses
of $30 a month are only the beginning. A couple can
expect a child to increase their costs about 15 percent his
first six years—more after that.)

Their debt strategy: The Rankins now pay finance
charges of 18 percent on three installment debts. We
advised them to seek a personal loan from the bank
where they have their checking account, to pay their
other debts. The lower-rate bank loan would save about
$60 on finance charges plus lower collision-insurance
charges. Jim probably does need collision insurance. His
car is essential to his job. But the full coverage his auto-
mobile-finance company requires is disproportionately
more expensive than a $100-deductible policy (adequate
enough for Jim’s needs), since it costs insurers as much
to handle small claims as large ones.

Their housing plan: “‘Tract”’ or mass-built develop-
ment houses are available in the Oakland suburbs for as
little as $14,300, some even with no down payment.
Large-tract builders can put up houses in this area for
$10-$11 a square foot of living space, compared with
$14-$15 for custom-built houses or small developments.

But Lynne is concerned that these low-priced homes
may not be satisfactory, Jim that he would have to com-
mute long distances on California’s crowded freeways.
There are other more-adequate and accessible houses,
some recently built, some older, available in the $16,000-
$17,000 bracket. If the Rankins should pay 10 percent
down on a house in this range, they would reduce their
present housing costs, and also have more facilities
(yard, garage, laundry area).

With a thirty-year $15,000 mortgage, their monthly
expense for mortgage payment, taxes, insurance, heating
would run about $120 a month. This seems even more
than they now pay. But they can deduct the mortgage
interest and taxes on their Federal tax return, and save

about $17 a month during the first five years. Too, part
of their payments would build equity in the house—
about $1100 by the end of the fifth year. Their real hous-
ing cost during this period would be about $85 a month.

The long-term increase in property values, estimated
by California realty experts as 2 to 3 percent a year,
through good years and bad, would further add to
their equity.

An expense of $120 for the Rankins would be within
the orthodox rule of 25 to 30 percent of take-home in-
come for housing.

Some couples pay rent for years while they wait to
buy the house they envision as their permanent home.
But the only way most families ever afford the house they
really want is by building up equity in a “‘starter’’ house
first. The fact is, custom-built houses often cost $30,000
today in close-in suburbs.

Homeownership is especially advantageous for a war-
time veteran like Jim. Not only does Uncle Sam help
subsidize ownership through a tax saving, but Califor-
nia, like a number of other states, gives veterans a par-
tial property-tax exemption. A typical property tax of
$275 would cost the Rankins only $185.

An older house would provide more space than a new
tract house for about the same cost. But the Rankins
must beware of obsolete wiring and plumbing that could
add $2000-$3000 to the ultimate cost. They need not
hesitate to bargain over the price, especially if armed
with a professional appraisal ($50 to $75) of the value
and rehabilitation needed. An Oakland mortgage au-
thority reports that actual sale prices average 9 percent
less than asking prices.

Nor, in this year of softer interest rates, need the
Rankins be reluctant to comparison-shop for a mortgage
as enthusiastically as for the house itself, even in high-
rate California. The VA rate of 514 percent is the lowest,
but not always available. When it is, the borrower usu-
ally has to pay an extra bonus to the lender of four to six
‘points’ (one point equals$1 for every $100 of mortgage).

Next lowest is the FHA 514 percent plus 1% of 1 per-
cent for loan guaranty (a true 534 rate), with a likely
bonus, in California, of 2% points. Conventional mort-
gages are available from savings associations, insurance
companies and banks, at 6 to 61% percent plus 1 to 14%
points, depending on where the money is borrowed.
Since Jim is a “‘prime risk”’ (his occupation as a chemist
promises income growth), the Rankins would be able to
negotiate a relatively reasonable rate. They simply must
be careful that a lender does not agree to a moderate
rate, then turn around and charge extra points. Two
points equal an additional 14 of 1 percent interest.

Mortgage interest is the largest cost of homeowner-
ship. On a $15,000, 6-percent mortgage the Rankins
would pay, in thirty years, over $17,000 in interest. The
Rankins—and other home hunters—would be wise to
make sure the mortgage contract grants the right to pre-
pay without penalty when they have extra cash, or even
refinance the mortgage if rates drop.

Taxmanship for new parents: As one example of the
importance of knowing tax benefits the Rankins unnec-
essarily paid $9 in a local personal-property tax last year.
They didn’t know until too late that Jim was eligible for
a veteran’s partial exemption.

On Federal income taxes, I first advised Jim to stop
having extra tax money withheld from his pay. Many
families do this to get a refund. But this attempt at
enforced saving is more than canceled when the family
then buys on credit. Uncle Sam pays the Rankins no
interest on additional withholdings, but they pay up to
18 percent on credit purchases.

In making out their annual return, the Rankins had
been accustomed to taking the standard 10 percent
allowance for deductions. But with more deductions
now available to them, they should first determine
whether their permissible deductions do not actually add
up to more than 10 percent of their income before decid-
ing whether to itemize deductions or take the stand-
ard allowance.

We made a trial run on their 1961 return and found
they would be eligible for a refund of about $275 if they

itemized, but only $228 with the standard deduction.
Even though they couldn’t take a deduction for property
taxes and mortgage interest, these tax savers were avail-
able to them (and many other families):

Contributions: They can deduct not only cash contri-
butions to church and charities, but also contributions
of goods, and the excess over reasonable value paid for
merchandise bought from tax-exempt organizations.

Interest: They can deduct the interest they pay on
their installment debts, up to certain limits.

Taxes: They can deduct other taxes they pay, includ-
ing state income tax; personal-property tax; sales tax
($31.80 on their car alone), and state gasoline tax.

Medical expense: This is a large deduction for the
Rankins this year. Here we also employed a bit of tax
strategy known as “‘bunching.”’ When I discussed taxes
with Jim and Lynne last December, I advised them to
get a short-term loan from their bank to pay their re-
maining medical bill of $186 before the end of the year.
In ’62 they may not have sufficient medical expenses
to get full tax advantage (you can deduct only that
portion of medical expenses over 3 percent of income).
A short-term loan in this amount!would cost them
about $7 but save $37 in taxes.

(“Bunching” can be used in other ways too. A family
which doesn’t always have enough deductions to item-
ize can bunch contributions and other deductible pay-
ments so that one year it itemizes, another year takes the
10 percent allowance.)

Besides doctor, hospital and dentist fees, the Rankins
can deduct their health-insurance payment and drug
costs, including household medicines, even if not pre-
scribed by a doctor, and therapeutic vitamins advised by
the doctor for Lynne as well as the baby.

Other deductions: Jim can also deduct the cost of mem-
bership in his professional association, of the technical
magazines and books he buys for his work, and of any
excess of business-travel or car expense over his employ-
er’s reimbursement. Other common deductible costs in-
clude safety clothing, tools, distinctive work uniforms
and investment expenses, including rental of a safe-
deposit box for securities.

Building a capital fund: As soon as they have cleared
their debts, Lynne and Jim plan to use the money re-
leased from installment payments and extra tax with-
holdings to set up a fund for their growing household
needs. More even than other families, young parents
need such a capital fund. The great bulk of installment
debts are owed by young families, and, surprisingly, not
by low-income families but by white-collar and skilled
workers. (In fact, almost half of the growing number of
consumer bankruptcies—growing through boom years
as well as recessions—involve families under thirty-two.)

But sometimes young families can save by borrowing.
The Rankins’ tax-deductible medical bill is one example.
For another, like many a young wife in a rented home,
Lynne is spending over $100 a year on a coin-operated
washing machine, when she could buy a new automatic
washer for $100. :

New parents also need to inquire into their public
benefits. Only because of a thoughtful reminder by the
Veterans Administration did Jim realize he had a last-
minute chance to reinstate his G.I. insurance. This
solved his immediate worry over increasing his family’s
protection, at a cost of $2.80 a month for $10,000 of
insurance (in addition to the $15,000 his company plan
provides). This young couple did not even realize Lynne
and the baby could get Social Security and VA pay-
ments if anything happened to Jim.

Parents-to-be and new parents can also call on com-
munity resources, such as preparenthood classes offered
at some local hospitals, postnatal help from a visiting-
nurse agency or public nurses, and, if funds are limited,
prenatal and pediatric care at maternity and well-baby
clinics sponsored by the Federal-state child-welfare
program.

Among the major maternity costs a young couple
needs to prepare for are obstetrical fees of about $150
(less in the Midwest, more in California), and hospital
care at, typically, $30-$35 a day.

s~*

Tom

HOW T0
EAT REGULAR
MEALS AND
STILL LOSE
WEIGHT

... Without liquid diets, drugs or exercise

Beautiful, blue-eyed Yvonne De Carlo has,
without a doubt, one of the youngest-looking
figures on the Hollywood scene. Read how
she keeps it that way.

By BOBBIE REYNOLDS

|
Jrown-up Americans are just coming out
ifthe greatest formula feeding “jag” they’ve
yen on since babyhood. Only this time, the
nillions of men and women who have been
rinking their meals did so to lose weight.
Jnfortunately, when returning to the joys
f good solid food, many of these formula
isers were shocked to discover that they be-
an to gain unwanted pounds again. And
fter months of doing without regular meals!
‘erhaps you are one of these.
| And now what to do about it?

Well, Hollywood, hometown of the
riginal glamor girls and always one step
nead of the rest of us, appears to have

amorous, British-born Diana Dors had to
me to the States to learn the secret of
ight control. Now she wants to tell the
rld about it.

2 answer. It’s all wrapped up in a low-
lorie candy that actually lets you eat
lar meals and still lose weight. Just
ctly what every hungry dieter dreams
doing.

Ow, eating candy may sound like a
ange way to lose weight. But this is no
linary candy. For instance, a chocolate
‘am contains 125 calories. However,
2 of these special candies (called Ayds)
itains only 25 calories. Furthermore,
ds is enriched with vitamins and min-
Is to help maintain your health while
1 take off weight. Still they’re delicious
ting. .

No liquid diets age involved. No drugs
ded with “jumpy nerves.” No laxatives
)Starvation diets.

It seems, when you take these candies
before meals according to directions, they
act to lessen your appetite. So, you auto-
matically eat less and lose weight naturally.

The list-of Hollywood stars who have
used Ayds is legion. Take, for instance,
Yvonne De Carlo who has as pretty a
figure as you'll find anywhere. When I
asked her about reducing, she said: “No
fad diets for me. It’s too great a risk. And
anyhow, why do it the hard way when I
can achieve the results I want easily and
safely, on the Ayds Plan. With Ayds, you
can eat what you want, but you never
want more than you should eat.”

Bicude and beautiful Diana Dors, just
finishing “On The Double’? with Danny
Kaye, is another. “Yes,” she said, “over
the years I’ve tried fad diets, but this
is a miserable way to reduce when you
love food the way I do. On the Ayds Plan
I lost 8 pounds and never felt better.”

To learn more about how and why this
candy works so effectively, we did some
research. The Ayds Plan is unquestionably
a tried and medically validated way to re-
duce. We found no less than three differ-
ent clinical reports published in medical
journals about this candy. In one, the doc-
tors reported that “subjects who were
given Ayds, the caramel candy, before
mealtime, lost three times as much weight
as those on a straight diet alone and nearly

It’s plain to see riding instead of walking
hasn't hurt Virginia Bruce’s lovely figure.
Fact is, she’s lost nine pounds.

twice as much as those using other appe-
tite depressants, including products pre-
scribed by physicians.”

Perhaps the most dramatic and convinc-
ing study of all was a weight-control test
on pregnant women by obstetricians and
gynecologists. Said these specialists: “We
found this [Ayds Vitamin and Mineral
Candy] had a wide margin of safety. It not
only suppressed the appetite satisfactorily
... but there were no digestive or central
nervous system side effects.”

Interestingly enough, the doctors made
this further comment: “Liquid diets are
contraindicated during pregnancy. They
contribute to an increase in body fluid and
cause constipation in some, diarrhea in
others.”

Finatty, the director of the Research De-
partment of a large University gave me
the explanation of how this candy works.
They, too, had studied weight-reducing
products and -had clinically tested over
seven different ones on patients. Finding
Ayds gave the best results, they conducted
a further study on blood sugar levels and
stomach contractions. This gave them their

answer. You feel hunger waves when your
stomach is empty and your blood sugar
level is low. Ayds quickly raises your
blood sugar level... quiets hunger waves
and you experience a reduced appetite,
resulting in a reduced intake of food.

As the director pointed out, “Do you
remember how your mother refused to let
you eat candy before meals, because it
would spoil your appetite? Well, this is the
same principle—only science has applied
it to reducing by developing this special
candy, It is a most sensible and economi-
cal way to take off pounds.”

There’s the reason men and women by
the hundreds are switching over to this
candy plan. Those who have lost weight
find it the ideal way to keep from gaining
it back while still enjoying regular meals.
And overweights find they can lose as
little or as much as their doctors think
they should without drugs or starvation
dieting. As a matter of fact, the makers of
Ayds guarantee that you must lose weight
with your first box ($3.25) or they will
refund your money.

Virginia Bruce, one of the all-time beau-
ties of Hollywood, says: “Ayds is ideal
from every point of view. So many women
‘over thirty’ become careless about their
figures and looks. And what a shame—
when Ayds is such a pleasant, safe, inex-
pensive way to stay slim.”

So, if you want to lose weight this de-
lightful way, see your doctor first. Then
get a box of Ayds Reducing-Plan Candy,
vanilla caramel or chocolate fudge-type,
at any drug or department store.

iVvO

NOW!
RELIEF FROM ALL
ACID CAUSED

STOMACH TROUBLES
in seconds!

Upset Stomach
Heartburn
Gas Pains
Nervous Stomach
Acid Indigestion

Whether tension-caused or due to over-
indulgence in food or drink, Phillips’
brings relief from all five stomach trou-
bles — in seconds! For the cause of all
these stomach troubles is excess acid-
ity. And scientific tests show Phillips’
starts to neutralize excess acids in
seconds! Yet stomach and lower intesti-
nal walls remain completely free to do
their digestive work. There’s no diges-
tive interference.

So when the fast pace of living gives
you one of these stomach troubles, take
Phillips’. You'll feel fine zr.

in practically no time!

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Ding

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 135

presents for the first time. What a relief! Peo-
ple had given to us for so long.” Lynne got
Jim some much-needed clothes on her depart-
ment-store discount. Jim gave Lynne, among
other things, a set of slinky slacks and a
blouse. When Lynne tried on the slacks she
couldn’t fasten them around her waist, and
she almost cried—but purely for Jim’s sake.
Both knew what was amiss. As Jim says now,
“T started boasting about our baby six weeks
before she went to the doctor.”

Lynne’s job ended with the year, and on
January sixth the doctor confirmed their cer-
tainty. They took the new slacks back to the
store and exchanged them for a dark maternity
skirt and white blouse which were to be the
mainstays of her wardrobe until August.
(That irrepressible gift giver, her mother, gave
her a shantung outfit for best, and friends lent
her a generous supply of rotating maternity
clothes.) That same month, Jim’s chemical so-
ciety’s placement bureau telephoned with the
news that Canada Dry Corporation’s West
Coast area was looking for a chemist. By
February first Jim was in his present job as
one of Canada Dry’s dozen quality-control
representatives, all of whom must be willing
to travel up to half the time and relocate if
necessary. His starting salary was $475 a
month.

Almost everything about Jim’s job appeals
to him. He and one supervisor have a labora-
tory in Berkeley as their headquarters, but
their beat is some forty-eight bottling plants
that range from Alaska to Mexico, and Jim
spends 40 percent of his time on the road.
Jim’s chief function is to make sure that
Canada Dry’s standards are being met, and he
arrives unannounced, somewhat like a bank
inspector, at each plant. But Jim says, “I don’t
think of myself as a policeman. I’m expected
to help plant managers with a// their problems,
including their bottling equipment. It’s the
combination of chemistry and mechanics that
I like.”

With the change in jobs, Jim moved from
one group medical-insurance policy to an-
other, but Lynne’s pregnancy fell between the
two stools, hence Jim has had to pay the costs
himself. But he and his family are now covered
by Canada Dry’s policy for field employees—
life, accident, hospital and surgical protection
all for a contribution from him of $14.86 a
month.

Jim’s job also carries a flat $43-a-month
depreciation allowance for his car (his mileage
allowance is only 3/4 cents). Out of this he is
expected to keep his car in perfect running
trim at all times, a feat that was becoming
impossible with his old *53 model. It had just
barely seen them back west. “First the reverse
wouldn’t work,” says Lynne, “which made
parking on our hill difficult. Then the low
gear went phooey. The brakes were bad, and
finally it wouldn’t even go forward half the
time. One day in March Jim got stuck in
traffic, and he was so mad he stormed in
saying, ‘Let’s go car hunting while the motor
still runs.’ ’’ They came home with a splendid
°59 model, their first real symbol of Jim’s new
status as a wage earner. Down payment was
the old car and $150 in cash, and they settled
for two-year financing at $52.50 a month.

=
Hien February through August last year,
Jim’s take-home was $380 a month, and the
living was not easy. In May they finally sent
for their long-stored furniture and brought
their sunny apartment, with its views of out-
door planters and a backyard with climbing
roses (neither of them theirs), to its attractive
finished state. But the moving bill ($348) was
the last irregular extra they would be able to
afford for some time, for also in May they
began the hospital payments for Jeff. As
Lynne says fervently, ‘‘We live from paycheck
to paycheck. Believe me, we do.”

When Jim’s raise went through last August,
he claimed no extra deduction for Jeff, prefer-
ring to look forward to a tax rebate this year.
Thus most of the raise was swallowed by an
increased Federal tax, an increase in his com-
pany insurance deduction for Jeff, a modest
raise of $10 a month for Lynne for household
expenses, $2.80 a month for Jim’s reinstated
G.I. insurance policy, and some much-needed

new clothes. Living from paycheck to pay-
check means that Lynne takes the semimonthly
check to the bank for deposit, and withdraws
$45 of it for all her household cash expenses.
Out of this $90 a month come all their food,
cleaning and household supplies; quarters for
the metered apartment-house washing ma-
chine, in which Lynne does all the laundry;
incidentals, from resoling a pair of shoes to
buying vitamin drops for Jeff. Jim keeps him-
self so short of cash that he collects from
Lynne for almost every household errand he
does. (After she came home from the hospital
he didn’t dock her for the roses, but, because
her expenses had been light, he did for the
stamps, baby bottles and so forth. “After all,”
he argued, “those cigars I passed out were for
your baby.”’)

Jim writes small cash checks as he needs
them. He takes his lunch to work in a paper
bag, keeps himself in cigarettes, haircuts and
coffee for under $20 a month. Their chief
entertainment expense is Lynne’s bridge lunch-
eon, which falls due every nine months, and
water-skiing equipment—an indulgence of
Jim’s from his days on Wisconsin lakes.

They have no savings account, no vacation
fund. An ordinary doctor’s bill and a pre-
scription for a bottle of gold-plated antibiotic
pills for either one of them would put a real
hole in their budget, but they remain healthy
from month to month. Until Jeff was born,
they made a gift of Jim’s absences from home,
which are often for a week or more at a time.
Sometimes Lynne would stay home, dine at
her parents’ house ten minutes away, and save
scads of food money. More often she would go
along, cheerfully roughing it and paying for
the extras with her household cash. ‘*We’d
take along the coffeepot and buy rolls the
night before for breakfast. Then, while Jim
was at the plant, I'd buy some groceries for
my lunch. It cost us only a couple of extra
dollars, and it was fun.”

Now Jim’s trips are a time of real loneliness
for Lynne, although Jeff goes along with her
to her parents’ house. Jim says firmly, ‘As
soon as he’s old enough to sit up in his car
seat, he'll come along on the trips too. I
believe in doing things as a family.”” At which
his womenfolk, aware of the realities of travel-
ing with a baby, look dubicus.

Jeff arrived with a price tag of $205 from his
obstetrician (for delivery and incidentals),
which the Rankins are eking out in monthly
installments. Above this, his actual monthly
maintenance has worked out at $30.75. He has
moved on to bottles, and this figure includes
formula, diaper service and pediatric care. His
pediatrician charges a flat rate of $105 for all
shots and periodic visits during his first year
($8.75 a month).

Jeff is a planned baby—not in the sense that
savings were put aside, but in the sense that
those who love him are managing to care for

him very well. The presents and loans are still
piling up—a bathinet, a silver fork and spoon,
a crib. When Jim’s expenses and everyone
else’s gifts are added up, close to $1000 has al-
ready been spent on him in the first months of
his life.

Jim and Lynne view the future conserva-
tively. Lynne, the child of her own parents,
frankly cannot conceive of casually filling a
house with children and turning them loose
on the world. ““We’d like to space ours ‘apart
so we can give more of ourselves to each one.
We want time to think about a house next,
and then, if the next one is a girl, we may have
only two children. Every child is a great
responsibility, and we’d like to do right by
each one.”

ys one of four children, agrees with her,
The help they have received from the Nor
mans is still a faintly touchy subject with him®
and he’d like to be able to support his children
himself. But he also shows signs of wanting to
spare his son the lonely self-sufficiency of his
own teens. Jim was expected to put himself
through college as a young man. He began
planning expensive insurance for Jeff’s educa-
tion well before Jeff was born, until he found
he could reinstate his G.I. insurance. Lynne
says, “Jim is very tender with his son.” The
night that Jeff first came home from the hos-
pital, he wakened at 2:30 a.m. and was fretful
after his nursing. Jim took over. “He put Jeff
on his knees in bed gnd crooned to him for an
hour.”

Jim and Lynne have been scandalized by
the lack of discipline among some small chil-
dren they have seen, and they have no inten-
tion of spoiling their son. Yet Lynne is as
hopeless a crooner as Jim as she nurses Jeff
(“Do you like to be talked to? Yes you do!”’).
She says of Jim, “He likes to tease me. But
when it comes right down to it, he lets me do
almost anything I want.’”? Then, alarmed at
how this sounds, for her own first wish is that
Jim be true boss of the family, she adds, ““You
know how I mean that. Just about Jittle
things.”

Jeff will probably get his college education |
and a lot of little things, too, from his father.
Jim is already the official reader of Dr. Spock,
and he is considered better at burping Jeff
than Lynne (Jeff’s small, bright-eyed face bobs |
like a cork over his father’s shoulder). Jeff
already has the greatest gift of all: his parents’
deepest feelings.

When he was first home from the hospital, —
Mrs. Norman couldn’t resist sympathizing |
with his every hunger cry. “Poor thing!’ she
would exclaim, as Lynne hurried to his side.

‘Poor little thing!” i

And Jeff, who had more urgent things on |
his mind than counting his riches, would |
simply lapse into blissful content at his moth-—
er’s breast.

END

“All right, let’s get rolling with that nine-o’clock tantrum!”

Printed in U.S.A.

PUPAL aaa

MAR 1 $ 1962

nr
PUBLIC L.SRARY

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BR U'C-E

AGATHA CHRISTIE

JANE HINCHMAN JOURNALITIES

DR. CLIFFORD ADAMS has been guid-
ing Journal readers in ways of
“‘Making Marriage Work’’ (see page
52) for fifteen years. Professor of
psychology at Pennsylvania State
University, he teaches and counsels
students in preparation for mar-
riage, conducts one course by
closed-circuit television. ‘‘My work
is so fascinating,’’ Dr. Adams tells
us, ‘‘that | probably would pay for
the privilege of doing it.”’

IN AGATHA CHRISTIE'S Newest novel
(page 68) a minor character who
writes detective stories complains
“the murder part is easy—it’s the
covering up that’s so difficult.’’ Miss
Christie has been practicing the art
of covering up for an unmentionable
number of years. ‘‘The Pale Horse,”’
a mystery with a dash of romance,
introduces an intriguing new ap-
proach to Doing Away With. If the
method catches on, detectives of
the future may need degrees in
psychiatry.

If ever you were a tomboy, you'll
see yourself in ‘‘Touch and Go”
(page 66). Author JANE HINCHMAN, a
Dayton housewife, says the story
comes from a lifetime association
with football—three husky brothers
who drafted her for quarterback,
and a husband who captained Ohio
State’s team. ‘Just when | thought
I'd outgrown football, my son and
his friends on the Fairmont High
reserves beganrunning wind sprints
on my lawn,”’ she tells us. ‘‘l also
have a daughter who prefers to play
Dixieland jazz.”’

GO WELD

* /B EvACT R Is@5Ee B EZAVG Ke Nigeeis

CONDENSED BOOKS COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE

INSIDE THE EXCITING WORLD OF FASHION (Nonfiction)
Carmel Snow, with Mary Louise Aswell

MHESPALEIHORSERGRICtION) sc. vente, ee cent iow cto ionce emer ome, Agatha Christie
STORIES

TOUCH ANDIGOR vac ct-sncue e-Ckst el ele mel cusetionelaets, em emrs Jane Hinchman

MR. DIEWORTHIS COFFEE(BREAKG .c2 o «i rte. cetelics sire mem ents Rosemary Casey
ARTICLES

ONEsMANES (HUMANITY: Jims. 3: ws tec, 0 wine, nee te cecpecure es Sesion Ira Hirschmann

AIMEE CHILD SHALE EAD MFIEMIss #- Sincgre ve co sah a: cmesteicis Margaret Hickey

HOW PARENTS CAN HELP ADOLESCENTS UNDERSTAND SEX
Benjamin Spock, M.D.

THE WOMAN'S MIND: AMERICA’S YOUNG HOMEOWNERS (Gallup Survey No. 4)
CAN THIS’MARRIAGE BE SAVED?:2o) ie fat meee Dorothy Cameron Disney
TELLOME; DOCTIOR xs. sa:c2%e: © tte ies eee oe Goodrich C. Schauffler, M.D.
MAKING MARRIAGE WORK .......... . . Clifford R. Adams, Ph.D.

HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY
“WE'RE BUYING OUR FIRST HOUSE”... . .
HOW TO PAY FOR HOME IMPROVEMENTS
FIRST AID FOR THE TRACT-HOUSE KITCHEN . .

Ste eras Neal Gilkyson Stuart
. . Sidney Margolius

. . Margaret Davidson

GENERAL FEATURES
OUR READERS WRITE US

Charles and Peggy Solomon
THERE'S AIMANUIN THEIHOUSE tees or crcmee ccieiee pacer cence Harlan Miller

ASIKANYOWOMAIWNE isn fe tems. ots seer cocesuieins, Rois (onetime oo cee nee Marcelene Cox

FASHION AND BEAUTY
HOW TO DRESS WELL ON PRACTICALLY NOTHING:

WARDROBE PERFECTIONS, INVESTMENT NO.3 .......... Bet Hart
YOU'RE NEVER TOO)OLD'TO'LOOK YOUNG! 253 eS eesuceoes Dawn Crowell Ney
NAKED WITH A:\CHECKBOOK, vwectice tices is 6) ce Renton rene Bet Hart
THE NEWSIINGPRIINT:S co... cakmaten cies cients eras erecta Wilhela Cushman
BRIGHT COTTON! SUIT... s;-PLWS Seis ocue acs onsale ete ares Nora O'Leary

FOOD
FROMIME TOi VOU). ox a G28 cton. citeue eR DAE ole te tices Seen ane Marcelene Cox
STORY OF THE DISAPPEARING MEAT LOAF........-... Jean Anderson
EASTER FEAST: AFTER CHUIRGH cer clue.) Gemeente aaa Elaine Hanna
HOMEMN TIME: FOR GINGERBREAD! <s-accveuce ic tecieue mene eee Liane Waite

ARCHITECTURE, HOMEMAKING AND INTERIOR DECORATION

ah, ceelie RrsumoP ris) Saaetre cies John Brenneman
oust ont es eee H. T. Williams
. Margaret Davidson

POEMS
THE WHEEL SONG)... curt a, Spcolt: yantes Reo ne et ae gee eee Elizabeth Henley
ONCE AS A CHILD ON THE WING ....:2...5..54.0- Elizabeth Graham
Te se einnsly s,s. 8 sete oSa. Sica ee cE aye She RE Ee on Emma Crobaugh
li, RAINS EVERY THING: ..... 2.22.) suet eee ee . John V. Hicks
ANOTHER EVE: «2s cas. 2) on) eee en Mary Billings
THE TEAR VIAL, 29s 4 Sie, ald sees ee eee Sara King Carleton
LINES FORIMY FATHER: 2.2) 2c) suerte aioe arene Ruth Hulburt Hamilton
VIEW eve tee eve 3 Bane. ete Se le lok re Mark Van Doren

G:O20sE,

APRIL, 1962

60
68

66
74

22
26
32
43
52

122
128
132

20
40
115
152

16
46
54
58
62

76
77
78
80

38
70
132

86
108
110
118
120
141
146
150

Cover photograph by Horst; Cover design by Wilhela Cushman; Fashion by Norman Norell.

SSS ET RL RNa 3

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E Del TOukes

VOL. LXXIX NO. 4

EXECUTIVE EDITOR:
Mary Bass

MANAGING EDITOR:
Curtiss Anderson

ART DIRECTOR:
Tom Heck

ASSOCIATE EDITORS:

Peter Briggs

William McCleery
Mary Lea Page
Wilhela Cushman
Cathy di Montezemolo
William E. Fink
Louella G. Shouer
Margaret Davidson
Nora O’Leary
Barbara Benson
Glenn Matthew White
Anne Einselen
Margaret Parton
Geraldine Rhoads
Nancy Crawford Wood
John H. Brenneman
Jean Todd Freeman
Nelle Keys Bell

Betty Coe Spicer
Neal Gilkyson Stuart
H. T. Williams
Cynthia Kellogg

Bet Hart

Berenice Connor

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS:

Richard Pratt

Laura Lou Brookman
Dawn Crowell Ney
Margaret Hickey

EDITORIAL ASSOCIATES:

John Werner

Ruth Mary Packard
Ruth Shapley Matthews
Joseph Di Pietro
Elizabeth Goetsch
Joyce Posson

Dorothy Anne Robinson
Liane Waite

Anne Fuller

Jim Abel

ASSISTANT EDITORS:

Victoria Harris

Alice Kastberg
Dorothy Markinko
Jean Anderson
Grant Harris

Ann Blackmar

Lee Stowell Cullen
Elaine Ward-Hanna
Carole O’Brien Gaffron
Hazel Owen

Miki Mahoney
Pamela Chamberlain

EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS:

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Mary Jane Engel
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Julie Ditchy Crum
Lee Pettee

Bette Holman
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Betty Felton
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OUR
READERS

ILLOW FIGHT

Dear Editors: My new Journal came
esterday. I had no chance to read it all
Hay, so I carried it upstairs, still un-
ppened, to read in bed. But my husband
managed to get in bed before I did. He
paid, ““I’ve got the Journal. Did you bring
nything to read?” What do I do now?
IsEORGENE C. Swank, Grand Forks, N.D.

Cuddle up a little closer.—ED.

,
)0-1T- YOURSELF DELIVERY

| Dear Editors: Shortly after the concep-
ion of my first child, I dreamed of de-
Ivering it entirely by myself. The dream
ixperience was so marvelous, I decided
in waking that [ would follow no other
jourse. I followed my diet almost fa-
jatically, eating only highly nutritious
bods and eliminating the weight-produc-
ng ones. Because of this, I was able to
pntinue working as a fashion model un-
jl my sixth month. I had gained only five
yunds and was in vibrant health.

I then moved to the country, where |
puld indulge in the outdoor exercise |
eve. I spent the rest of my lazy summer
vimming, walking, cycling and garden-
ng, wearing as little clothing as possible
nd shoes only when absolutely neces-
ry. These activities | continued up to
ve day of parturition.

) Until four o’clock that afternoon I
leaned, shopped, prepared meals in ad-
ance for my husband, cleaned out the
r and wrote letters. I then showered,
onned a comfortable robe, and prepared
je bed with rubber sheet and pad. By
hen the contractions were severe

o-t

“A glimpse of paradise.”

ough to warrant lying down. Soon |
Hat into the second stage of labor. As I
Hd my breath and bore down with each
4 traction, my husband, watching my
He, remarked that I appeared to be en-
jying it. He was holding a hand mirror
Ethe proper angle; I could see the whole
fpcedure as well as he. I took a deep
Keath, held it (thank goodness for all
‘it swimming last summer), and with

one long bearing-down effort delivered
my baby. I carefully and firmly tied the
umbilical cord six inches from the navel
and again two inches from the first tie.
With

daughter from her source of food and she

sterile scissors, I severed my

became another link in humanity’s

chain. I washed her and weighed her—6
pounds, 4 ounces. She measured 18”.
Only one and three quarter hours’ labor!
My feeling of exuberance, delight and
thankfulness at the end of this momen-
tous experience was unspeakable.

My recovery was quick. I was up and
around the next morning, doing light
housework but resting at intervals. Four
days after the birth, my body had re-
turned to normal, at least outwardly-
my waistline being one half inch smaller
than before pregnancy. I even managed
to attend church the following Sunday.

To those who ask if I plan to follow
this procedure with future babies, I can
only reply, “If you were shown a fleeting
glimpse of paradise, wouldn’t you want
another look?”

NATALIE SANDELL, Glassboro, N.J.

TAKES BIBLE TO MOSCOW

Dear Editors: In the July, 1961, issue
of your fine magazine a letter from the
Rey. Steve Durasoff stated that Amer-
icans visiting the Soviet Union were
missing an opportunity for Christian
service if they did not take with them a
Bible printed in Russian. (The letter also
said that anyone interested would be
supplied with such a Bible at no cost.)

Since we were planning a trip to the
U.S.S.R., I wrote to Mr. Durasoff (Box
3456, Grand Central Station, New York
City) and offered to take a Bible with me
to Moscow,

With the Bible, he sent a list of seven
churches to which it could be presented.
My husband and I picked the first one on
the list, the Baptist. We met the Rev.
[lia Orlov of this church and gave him
the Bible. He was most erateful. He told
us he was allowed to preach the gospel
but could not recruit young people or
have any youth organizations in his
church. He also said that Bibles (one at a
time, not a quantity) could be sent to
him in Moscow.

We shall always remember with great
satisfaction that we had the pleasure of
doing this service because we read the
“Dear Editor” page of your magazine.

Mrs. A. Hamitton Otro, Plainfield, N.J.

CAN A LADY EVER RELAX?

Dear kditors:s When I read that it
strains a marriage if the wife goes to bed
in cold cream and curlers, I stopped.
Then someone accused housewives of
combing their hair with a vacuum
cleaner. When I looked into my mirror,
I saw it was true. So I started getting up
a half hour earlier in order to put my
hair up. Then I read a letter in the Jour-
nal from a milkman who said suburban
housewives are slobs who come to the
door in nightgowns and wrappers. I’ve
done that, all right, so I began getting up
even earlier to put ona girdle, high heels
and makeup. I didn’t want my milkman
but then [|
felt like a visitor in my own home. How

to complain about me to you

could I possibly scrub floors and iron?
Before dawn? Now I'ma slob again. But
I tried! | suppose you try too.

A SUBURBAN SLos, Mt. Vernon, N.Y.

@ Yes, but we pay attention to our post-
man—not our milkman. He arrives at a

reasonable hour.— ED.

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Ce: PATS PEK

by ira birschman
In Hitler’s last mad drive to exterminate

the Jews, 250.000 terrified men, women

and children were helpless. One man, un-

known then, acted to save them. Today,

he is known and loved by millions.

PAE AOD EELS LES EMEP LOL ELIE AL GLE SPATE iE

The woman on my right was engrossed in
sprightly table talk with the man on her right.

We had been introduced as we sat down to
dinner, but her name had escaped me in the wave
of chatter and the shuffling of chairs. [ did quickly
notice, however, the evident modishness of her
dress and the smartness of her grooming. “Chic”
was the word, and to a middle-aged romantic she
was immediately designated as a Continental.

| had no desire to eavesdrop, but snatches of
her conversation reached me, disconnected words
and phrases which despite their vagueness sud-
denly interested me. There was something in the

=-*

BASED ON AN EPISODE IN TO KNOCK IS TO ENTER, BY MR. HIRSCHMANN, TO BE PUBLISHED IN THE FALL BY DAVID MCKAY COMPANY, INC.

way she flattened certain vowels and thickened her
consonants which hinted at an accent that seemed
to have meaning to me.

When. finally, she turned toward me, I reintro-
duced myself and put the question: “Are you from
Kurope?”

She laughed at the natvete of my question and
answered, “Couldn't you tell by my accent? Pm
from Hungary, from Budapest.”

“Were you there during the war?” I asked.

“Oh. yes, for most of it.”

| remarked that | knew something of the hard-
| ships suffered by the people there at that critical
| time, adding, “Especially the Jews.”

By this time our conversation was no longer the ‘
typical chatter one exchanges with dinner partners.
Her face clouded over with an expression close to
pain as she quietly told me, “I should know. |
was one of them.”
‘But you did get out before the end?”
“Yes,” she said after a CONTINUED ON PAGE 10

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 6

moment’s hesitation. “Yes, I got out, at the
last moment. But if I hadn’t been baptized
that night, in a bomb shelter, I might not be
here today, talking to you.”

The words were simply said, but the impact
struck me with more force than she could have
expected. In that moment I was transported as
if in a filmed flashback to another period,
years earlier and thousands of miles away.

I was aboard a tiny excursion boat on the
Sea of Marmora which separates the Aegean
and Black Seas and is practically landlocked
by the two halves of Turkey. It was late in the
summer of 1944; my companion was Gilbert
Simond, the International Red Cross repre-
sentative in Turkey and we were on our way to
the tiny island of Biuyacada to see Monsignor
Angelo Roncalli, the Apostolic Delegate of
the Vatican in the Middle East.

At that time I was serving as a special envoy
for the War Refugee Board, which had been
established by President Roosevelt with the
express purpose of saving lives wherever and
whenever possible. My personal mission was
to extricate refugees from the Balkans.

In the months that I had been in Turkey, we
had been able to force the closing of the con-
centration camp at Transnistria in Rumania.
Ships of all sizes and descriptions were leaving
the Black Sea port of Costanza, loaded with
people fleeing to escape the fate suffered by so
many others—being driven, in turn, into ghet-
tos, concentration camps and finally the ex-
termination centers. And the flow of these
refugees across Turkey and Syria io safety in
Palestine had grown to sizable proportions.

But all of us concerned with saving the rem-
nants of European Jewry were horrified and
frustrated by the news that was leaking out of
Hungary. The reports that came to us from
underground sources would have been unbe-
lievable if we had not by that time learned at
first hand of the actual existence of the gas
chambers, the crematoria and the other imple-
ments of Hitler’s savage and unrelenting war
against the Jews.

We learned that the Nazis, under the per-
sonal direction of the infamous Adolph Eich-
mann, goaded by the knowledge that the tides
of the war were racing against them, were de-
termined to complete their grisly task of ex-
termination, their “final solution to the Jewish
problem.” They sought to accomplish in weeks
in Hungary what had taken years in Germany,
Austria, Poland and the rest.

The statistics of the charnel house tell their
own tragic story. From April 10, 1944, to June
28 of the same year, 516,075 Jews of all ages
had been transported from Hungary to Ausch-
witz and systematically slaughtered. In slightly
more than two months all Hungary outside of
Budapest had been rendered ‘‘Judenrein’—
free of Jews—the most devastating mass anni-
hilation in the history of mankind.

We didn’t know all the grim statistics then,
but we did know that the time for rescue had
shrunk to a few precious weeks. Something
drastic had to be done immediately to save the
Jewish population of Budapest—approxi-
mately a quarter of a million terrified and
helpless men, women and children.

- desperation | turned to Gilbert Simond, a
man of great good will who had been instru-
mental in the saving of thousands of lives.
Simond was an influential Catholic layman
and I begged him to prevail upon his friends
in the church to help us in the name of human-
ity. He suggested that we see Monsignor Ron-
calliand arranged a meeting.

The home of the Pope’s highest emissary in
the Middle East was a spacious old house sit-
ting high atop a hill. Hidden from below by
lush foliage, it nevertheless afforded a stun-
ning view of the sea in all directions. Immedi-
ately on our arrival on the island, we had been
ushered into a well-appointed room where we
waited for Monsignor Roncalli.

After a brief wait, he entered, a short rotund
man whose good humor was immediately evi-
dent in his eyes, twinkling under his black
skullcap. Warmly and graciously, he welcomed
us in Italian, bidding us be seated. As we did
so, I offered a silent prayer of thanks for the
Italian I had learned some years back: it es-
tablished an easy contact between us.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Once Simond and I were comforiably set-
tled, our host turned to a small cupboard from
which he tcok a bottle of red wine. After ad-
miring its color, he poured out three glasses
and insisted upon drinking to our health.
Anxious about my mission, I discreetly tried
to introduce the reason for my visit. But Mon-
signor Roncalli brushed me aside, saying,
“That will come later. First we must enjoy the
view, the conversation and the wine.”

His personality was so radiant and his con- -
viviality so genuine that I was warmed by his
spirit and for the moment let the purpose of
my presence escape me. In fact, it wasn’t until
the dregs of a second bottle had been downed
that he would permit any thought of practical
discussion. Then, suddenly, he announced,
“Dunque, cominciamo . . . now, let us begin.”

Mizsenos Roncalli listened intently as t
outlined the perilous plight of the Jews in
Hungary. I cited the meager statistics avail-
able to me and repeated several of the eyewit-
ness accounts I had received from under-
ground operatives. Then he pulled his chair
closer and quietly asked, “Do you have any
contact with people in Hungary who will co-
operate?”

After my affirmative reply, he hesitated a
few moments before asking, “Do you think
the Jews there would be willing to undergo
baptism ceremonies?”

Not prepared for this suggestion, I equivo-
cated a bit and said that I could only guess or
assume that if it meant saving their lives, they
would be ready to do so gratefuily. I added, “I
know what I would do.”

He went on to say that he had reason to be-
lieve that some baptismal certificates had al-
ready been issued by nuns to Hungarian
Jews. The Nazis had recognized these as cre-
dentials and had permitted their holders to
leave the country.

We agreed that he would communicate with
his representatives in Hungary and that I
would get in touch with our underground con-
nections to arrange for either large-scale bap-
tism of Jews or, at least, certificates to be ts-
sued to women and children. It would be up to
those who were baptized to decide later
whether they would wish to remain in the
church or “go their way.”

The proposal and agreement had been ac- |
complished in what seemed like a few minutes.

It was clear to me that Monsignor Roncalli,
had considered this plan before my arrival and |
that he had created an atmosphere in which to
test my credentials, my discretion and my abil-
ity to put the operation into effect practically.
I had no doubt that the wheel would soon be
set in motion in Hungary for ‘Operation Bap- file
tism’’ under the auspices and with the mercy} he
of the Catholic Church. |i

Simond and I were silent as we sailed back I
to Istanbul in the little ferryboat. Somehow hin
we were awed by the scope and direction of the.
events of the afternoon, arrived at so simply; ij
and without inhibition, but so heavy with pos- l
sibilities. In our silence, each of us was taking have
stock of the implications of our compact. Wejfn
were approaching twilight, and as our little}
steamer skimmed over the water the lengthen-!
ing shadows stretched ahead like moving Dine
phantoms. Could this be a portent of the lift} *
ing of a curtain to reveal a new freedom forf® ¢
those whose lives depended on our help? Rtero

Try as I may, I have not been able to ascer-} *
tain exactly how many Hungarian Jews were) jj
saved or had their lives made easier with those!
baptismal certificates. They must number ini)
the thousands. And all this thanks to the com} i”
passionate intervention of the pone ;
Apostolic Delegate to the Middle East. 2 See

No other personality I met during those aay
troubled times in Turkey had more sharply; Dh
etched himself into my memory. How often ] NS)
have recalled our meeting and remembered |,
his warmth, dynamism and sympathy. It was} ~
not within the purview of his pastoral duties jj
to be involved in the rescue of Jews. His ac- IN
tion was proof of his humane concern for
the welfare of all people. Pats

Is it any wonder that I was moved to tears}.
when in 1958 I read the headlines which an: Se
nounced to the world that Angelo Roncallf{y,;)
had been elected the ruler of the Catholidh .

|
Church and was from that date to be knowr Mt
as Pope John XXIII? ENTE}

APRIL, 1962

When you decide that you want to invest,
“How will you go about it?

} Here are two approaches. Which woman’s
Vhinking matches yours?

First woman: “T’dinvest all the money I

ave without worrying about a cash reserve.

‘Why save money with prices rising?”

»4 Second woman: “I would invest only
qnoney left over after I had provided for liv-

ang expenses and put away something for

}mergencies.”’

First woman: “I’d pick up a lead on a
}tock from the girls at the bridge club—a
-aqtock that’s supposed to be going up fast.”
‘} Second woman: “I’d get the facts about
ny company whose stock I was considering.
‘Does it have a good profit record? Also, what
4re its prospects?”

First woman: “I’d buy only stocks that

Dok like they’d make money in a hurry. Who
‘ants to wait?”

} Second woman: “Depending on my goal,

# would consider different kinds of stocks.

erhaps I’d want to know about stocks that

light have a chance to grow in value over

the years. There are other stocks which could
be a better choice for income from dividends.
Or I might want to consider bonds which
usually offer greater safety of principal. And
I’d bear in mind that prices of stocks and
bonds go down as well as up—and they may
not continue to pay dividends or interest.”’

First woman: “T guess any broker would
be glad to take my order. The important
thing is to find somebody who knows how to
make a lot of money fast.”

Second woman: “‘T’d choose a broker care-
fully. I’d start with a visit toa Member Firm
of the New York Stock Exchange. The Reg-
istered Representatives there — though they
are not infallible—have met Exchange re-
quirements for knowledge of the securities
business.”

There is a right way and a wrong way to
invest. One big step on the right road, we
believe, is to find a Member Firm broker.
Look in the Yellow Pages of the telephone
directory. Member Firms are listed in the
Stock Broker section under “New York
Stock Exchange.”

When you do, talk about the amount you

For women who are thinking of investing

The right way
s. the wrong way
to invest

in stocks and bonds

would like to invest, the goals you have set.
If you like, ask about the Monthly Invest-
ment Plan, which lets you invest with as
little as $40 every three months. Start right,
if you are planning to invest, with the help
of a Member Firm broker.

Own your share of American business

Members New York
Stock Exchange

For offices of Members nearest you, look

under ‘“‘New York Stock Exchange”’ in the stock broker
section of the Yellow Pages.
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LADIES’ HOME JOURNA\

LITTLE CHILD
OHALL

LEAD THEM

By MARGARET HICKEY

PUBLIC AFFAIRS DEPARTMENT

Often we smile at anecdotes about the brief rebellion of the child
who runs away from home. No one seeing Stephen Bowen’s wild
flight, the desperation in his brown eyes, the tenseness of his small
body could have been amused. Plainly, here was a child in trouble.
Stevie ran a long way, not knowing where, not caring, just away
from the neglect of a disturbed mother, the brutality of a drunken
father. Although he did not know it, this lonely, frightened little boy
had taken the right direction. It led him to the first real security of
his young life and, eventually, to a foster home and an uncrippled
childhood.

Not all stories of deprived children have such happy endings.
That so many have is due in large part to a little-known Washington
bureau and to its small staff, who work quietly and unstintingly to
help others meet the physical and emotional needs of children.

Since 1912, when it was established by Congress, the Children’s
Bureau, beginning with its drive to reduce shockingly high infant and
maternal death rates, has pioneered in the field of child welfare. It has
pushed for governmental and voluntary co-operation in campaigns
for better adoption practices, juvenile courts and birth registration.
It has cheered on the fight for child-labor laws, for care and assistance
for the unmarried mother, for protection of the migrant child, for
understanding of the fine line between neglect and delinquency.

As the Children’s Bureau celebrates its fiftieth anniversary,
Journal editors express their appreciation for its fact finding and
sound research, so often quoted in our own editorial championship

of children’s health and well-being. But little time should be wasted in

backward glances. The prevention of damaged lives will not wait. Our

primary goal, of course, must be security for the child in his own

home, with parents themselves giving love and security. Homemaker ,
services should be provided during illness or incapacity of the mother;
day care and health services to protect the child when his family?
cannot care for him. The homeless or abandoned child needs tem-*
porary care until permanent placement can be made; the physically.
and mentally disturbed child must be rehabilitated.

Establishment of the Children’s Bureau made the United States
the first nation to create a governmental agency devoted solely to
its children. The Children’s Bureau has become their lobby, small
and modestly budgeted, but with goals so great and vital they have
become a powerful expression of our belief that its children are a

nation’s most important resource.

END |

|
|\PRIL, 1962

WHY DO SOME FAMILIES SEEM
TO GET MORE OUT OF LIFE?

Some families glow with the pure enjoyment of life. Everyone
who knows them is warmed by their vitality and friendliness. For such
a family, life is good and fun and exciting.

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BRIDGE

By CHARLES AND PEGGY
SOLOMON
WORLD’S LEADING
HUSBAND-AND-WIFE TEAM

NORTH
@ QJ1042
‘ Q7
K 42
. 1085
WEST EAST
a7 53
¥ KI853 y 10964
#AQJ10 @5
& K96 & 037432
SOUTH
@ AK 986
y A2
@ 98763
hA
Neither side vulnerable
East dealer
The bidding:
EAST SOUTH WEST NORTH
Pass | Spade Double 3 Spades
Pass | Spades Pass Pass

Pass
West opens the @ A

After going down one at what
looked like a cinch four-spade con-
tract, South turned dejectedly to
West and mumbled:

“What a lucky stab! What on
earth made you think of leading the
ace of diamonds?”

That smug gent, all puffed up with
the brilliant result of his initial thrust,
refused to admit there was any luck
involved at all.

“Tt seemed a clear-cut choice,’’ he
said. “Quite a lead, I gotta admit. Of
course I’m sorry I did it to you, pal.”’

This is typical conversation at the
bridge table: the postmortem in which
one player laments his bad luck and
the other takes credit for his genius.
But in this case, both players were
wrong. West couldn’t back up his
“clear-cut choice’”’ with any logic.
And South could have made his con-
tract anyway.

We must admit that West’s selec-
tion of a lead from his tenace position
was inspired. But we don’t like to see
a fellow brag the way he did.

After West’s informatory double,
North actually had no perfect bid.
He had insufficient values to redou-
ble, and a single raise did not quite

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

describe his good supporting hand.
He considered a leap to game, but
felt this was an overstatement. Hence
he made a semipre-emptive move to
the nine-trick level. South, with a
swell distributional holding, was un-
der no pressure about carrying on to
game.

After West’s dramatic lead (we'll
admit this would not have been our
choice), he continued with the queen
of diamonds at trick two. The board’s
king was played and East ruffed.
East then returned a heart through
South’s ace. Even though he was al-
most certain that West had the miss-
ing king (based on his takeout dou-
ble), declarer had no choice but to
play small. West won the king and
promptly cashed his jack of diamonds
for the fourth and setting trick.

Let us see how declarer could have
overcome the obstacle of that mur-
derous opening fling. After West con-
tinued with the queen of diamonds at
trick two, declarer should not have
put up dummy’s king! He could well
afford to lose three diamond tricks.
Even if East had originally held a
doubleton, rather than a singleton,

the play of a small diamond from |

dummy would have been worthwhile.
By playing a small diamond, South
would have conceded the second trick

to West. East would probably dis- |
card a club. Now West would con- |

=-*

tinue with the diamond jack, which —

would be covered by dummy’s king.
East would trump, producing the

third trick (book) for the defense. |
East would then shift to a heart, but —

now declarer would climb up with his |

ace! South would now extract the ad- |
verse trumps, after which he would —

ruff a fourth diamond in dummy.
Now his fifth diamond would be pro-
moted into a winner. Declarer would

return to the closed hand with a_

trump and jettison the board’s heart ©
loser on the established fifth diamond! .

It would now be routine for South |
to ruff his losing heart in dummy. —

The four-spade contract would sail)
home afloat after all!

Moral: Be extremely careful before j
making a move at trick one or trick |
two. The fate of eight out of ten
hands is decided by the decision at
that crucial moment.

The Solomon System of point count
for honor cards is: ace, 4; king, 3;

queen, 2; jack, 1; two tens, 1. Asingle-

ton king, 2; a singleton queen, 1. (Do

not count tens in an original no-trump

or for evaluating a slam.) Generally,

a holding of 13 points is required for

an opening bid.

i
|

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DR. SPOCK TALKS WITH MOTHERS
“Most young people who have been brought
up in families with high tdeals will not let

themselves get to the point of intercourse

until marriage,

not because they are timid, but because the
girl, knowing herself, knows that she
would lose some of her respect for herself.
And the boy loves her too much to

be willing to make her unhappy.”

BY BENJAMIN SPOCK, M.D.

not because of lack of desire,

SEX

HOW PARENTS
CAN HELP

ADOLESCENTS
g> UNDERSTAND

The young adolescent has to wrestle with conflicts
in many spheres. But these struggles are particu-
larly intense in regard to sex. Desire has come
abruptly. It is more insistent, especially in boys,
than at any later stage. When the young person
reaches greater maturity he will have a much
better sense of the kind of person of the opposite
sex he really gets along with. Then the sexual
drive will be blended with, and controlled_by,
other aspects of man-woman relationships: deep
and

companionship respect,

AL FRANCEKEVICH

common interests and ideals,
plans for the future. But in
early adolescence it is suddenly
there, unconnected with other
interests, calling attention to
itself in an embarrassing way,
buffeting the inexperienced boy
and girl around. It’s partly
pleasant, it’s exciting. At the
same time it can bring about
self-consciousness, loss of as-
surance, anxiety and guiltiness.

One aspect of sex which is
particularly confusing to an
adolescent in America is that
many adults show contradic-
tory attitudes toward it. At one
time they will talk about it as
if it were almost sacred, then as
if it were shameful, and then
again as if it were a joke to
snicker at. This gives him the
impression that adults are hyp-
ocrites and makes his own un-
derstanding of sex more diffi-
cult. It seems to be hard for us
Americans to think of sex as both natural and
noble. This is partly due to the fact that we started
as an intensely puritanical country and are having
trouble outgrowing this attitude in a scientific
age. Some teenagers lately have tried to settle the
conflict in their own minds by concluding that sex
and love are just a matter of biology, of glands.
This is true only of such animals as insects and
fishes and rabbits. We know for a fact that some
their

£
outgrowths of their

of the
idealism, their creativity, are

finest aspects of boys and girls,

capacity for true love of each other. If they try to
deny the spiritual aspects of love they will surely
get more mixed up; they’ll end up being disap-
pointed in themselves and in each other, in dating
and later on in marriage.

It is good to be clear at the start about the dif-
ferences between male and female in respect to the
nature of their sexual drives. Back in Victorian
times it was a conventional belief that men had
all the sexual instincts and that good women were

It will take a long time for both of them to find out whether they really have the qualities that
will satisfy each other's needs and ideals. If they do, they will feel a stronger and stronger love.

innocent of any such desire. Then, in the revolt
against prudery and the double standard, the
pendulum swung in the opposite direction. Some
people claimed that women had just the same
impulses and outlook as men. Nowadays sensible
people point out the differences again.

In general, physical desire in boys and men is
considerably more insistent. It is less discriminat-
ing in its choice. It easily responds, of course, to
an attractive, appropriate and appreciative girl.
3ut a boy’s sexual interest can also be stirred up

by a good figure alone (especially if it’s seductively
clothed) or a pretty face, even though the girl’s
personality has no special appeal. He can be
aroused by pictures, by stories, by thoughts.

This does not mean that a boy lacks the capacity
for the other aspects of love. It depends a good
deal on the kind of family he grows up in. If his
father shows not only ardor but tenderness, pro-
tectiveness, admiration for his mother, it power-
fully molds a boy’s expectations of what he himself
will offer to girls as he grows
up. We also know that a boy’s
capacity to love spiritually is
developed way back in early
childhood through his intense
devotion to a good mother,
when she was the most wonder-
ful and important person in the
world to him. This is what
inspires him, years later in
adolescence, to fall in love with
a girl who seems to have just the
right combination of qualities.

This expression “falling in
love” means that his attitude
toward her becomes romantic
and chivalrous and adoring, as
well as physically desirous. He
is ready to idealize her, to
invest her with wonderful at-
tributes (which may be hard
for her to live up to). His
greatest desire is to please her
in all respects, to achieve suc-
cess in school or in the world
for her sake, to protect her, to
give her gifts. Even his physical
desire, as he matures, is largely aimed at pleasing
her sensually; he receives his most intense gratifi-
cation only when she responds.

What all this means is that if a worthwhile boy
begins to be attracted to a girl (and she to him),
he is ready to offer her as many aspects of love as
he is capable of. It is up to her to show what kind
of appreciation she wants from him. If she’s
normal, she’ll want to be physically attractive.
But much more she’ll want to be loved as a com-
pletely appealing person. CONTINUED ON PAGE 24

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Mother of 5

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24
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 22

It will take a long time, though, in adolescence
for both of them to find out whether they
really have the qualities that will satisfy each
other’s needs and ideals. If they do, they will
feel a stronger and stronger love. But mean-
while the problem is that the boy’s physical
desire is strong enough so that, soon after he
finds the girl, he will want to express it. If he
has any boldness, he will probably try to do
so. This is particularly apt to be true in the
early part of adolescence when sexual desire
is so new and separate. But if a girl allows
petting to progress faster than the develop-
ment of true affection, it is so exciting that it
quickly becomes the main interest of their
dates, especially for the boy. It gets in the way
of their coming to love and respect each other
more. Boys and girls who are responsible peo-
ple sense this and try to keep their physical de-
sire under control. But it is girls who are usu-
ally better able to do so.

Most girls have a less intense, less persistent
physical desire. Their bodily response is rela-
tively dormant until stirred up by a boy’s ap-
proaches. A girl is not so apt to be carried
away by a boy’s appearance alone. She may be
attracted by his face at first. But soon her good
sense begins to operate. Then she responds
primarily to the appeal of his total personality,
his attitude toward her, and—most important
of all—his suitability as a long-term partner.

All this does not mean that girls are not in-
tensely interested in boys. In fact, it looks as
though they spend more hours of the day than
boys in thinking and talking together about
members of the opposite sex, in sorting them
out, partly on the basis of romantic appeal
but also very realistically. (You may be inter-
ested to know that surveys have shown that, at
election time, women in contrast to men judge
a candidate more on the basis of what kind of
family man he’d make, less on where he stands
on the issues.) In the early years of adoles-
cence—13, 14 and 15—the interest of girls in
eligible boys is so great and the shyness of
most boys is so disappointing that some girls
are surprisingly aggressive in chasing the boys
who appeal to them, or in arranging, in
roundabout ways, to reveal their feelings.

It is necessary, though, for a girl to know
early in adolescence that she has a capacity
for strong physical desire. If she and an at-
tractive boy spend hours together in privacy,
over a period of weeks and months—and if
they are halfway normal—the desire for
greater physical intimacy will steadily in-
crease. And each stage of intimacy creates a
more intense desire for the next. Human na-
ture was designed this way, so that the re-
straints which are essential in the human race
can be gradually broken down between two
people in preparation for marriage. The trou-
ble is that Nature is working for a marriage at
about 15 or 16 years. Early dating and going
steady for months will encourage intimacy
even before 15. But our society expects every-
one to be in school until at least 17 or 18, and
for many people years longer.

There are other drives, aside from physical
desire and the search for a suitable partner,

“Mom, were you ever in loye—not
with dad—I mean really in love?” Wi

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

which draw boys and girls together. There is a
gnawing curiosity about what sex really means
which becomes steadily more intense through
adolescence. Outspoken boys and girls com-
plain that lecturers in school and college,
counselors, parents, books are quite inade-
quate. These reproaches are often true. But I
think that even when literature or experienced
friends are thoroughly revealing, the young
person will inevitably continue to feel cheated
in his knowledge until he has had a satisfac-
tory sexual relationship himself.

In every boy (as in every man) there is a
chronic anxiety about whether he will be a
sufficiently virile male in general, and an ade-
quate lover. It varies greatly in individuals. It
isn’t very conscious in the early part of ado-
escence. Then it becomes particularly in-
sistent through the rest of that period until
the young man has proved that he can win,,
satisfy and support a woman. But all their# |
lives boys and men may show their uneasiness
by such actions as taking crazy chances, boast-
ing to females, making passes that are not
appropriate, demanding a good table at a
crowded restaurant, acting as if they were
dashing young bucks when they should be old
enough to know better. This aspect of males
sometimes makes them laughable to women,
but they would be very little use to women in
any way if they did not have some of it.

In girls and women the corresponding anxi-
ety is whether they will be sufficiently appeal-
ing to attract the kind of man they want, and
whether they themselves will be able to re-
spond fully. This concern will, of course, be
greatest in adolescence when they have no
basis for assurance yet. In most women, mar-
riage relieves the major part of the uncer-
tainty, though they continue to need the as-
surance that their husbands love them, and
appreciate occasional evidences that other
men still consider them attractive. A few
women, though, remain so insecure in this
respect that they must forever be trying to
infatuate another male.

Another motive for dating which is unnat-
urally strong today is the desire of teenagers }
to have a boyfriend or a girlfriend in order to |
be like everyone else. It’s imitation and com- |
petition and the search for security in social
life. It’s now the convention in most places. It
is almost a frenzy in some groups. Back in the
days when few went steady until late adoles-
cence, the shy ones and the less mature ones
were free to take their time in growing up to
dating. Nowadays some children who aren’t
at all ready are forcing themselves to compete
for partners and to play the roles of people in
love. There are girls who consider themselves
old maids if they aren’t married soon after
graduation from college, or even school.
Sometimes a mother will urge her daughter
on, from a misguided desire to ensure her
popularity, or because of her own ambitious-
ness or vicarious excitement. Girls who are too
eager to have steady boyfriends are apt to
remain pursuers all through adolescence. This
brings out the wrong characteristics in both
sexes and it isn’t good for either.

CONTINUED ON PAGE 121

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THE WOMAN'S MINI

Shaping the ’60’s . Young wives and mothers
are today’s homeowners in greater numbers
than ever before. It takes a million and a quarter
new single-family units yearly to accommodate
their demands for independence and privacy.
This month’s survey by Dr. George Gallup ques-
tioned in depth more than 500 brand-new mis-
tresses of middle- or upper-cost houses. What
does their ‘‘first house’’ mean to their families?
What are the pleasures, the worries—and the
complaints? What’s wrong with American
houses? What’s right about them? And what
are the pressures of these pace-setting women
for change? .. . Foreshadowing the ’70’s

ANIERICAS YOUNG HOMEOWNERS

Young couples across America are aware that our economy has made it sur-

prisingly easy for them to buy an attractive, livable house. Nevertheless, if
they are buying their first house in a new development, they have a vivid
sense of being at the mercy of builders. They have little or no say about con-
struction or plans, since the majority (56 co move into houses already
built, and many of the rest accept models already planned. A whacking third
describe themselves as surrounded by loose nies ieee basements,-alumi-
num sashes that run off their tracks, chrome fixtures that won’t shine, and din-
ing areas that jam the living room. As one young wife said bitterly, “
ity was forgotten.’ Almost all the wives we questioned (88 percent) could name
two or more things wrong with their houses right off the bat. Only one in ten
was completely satisfied.

Yet most of our home purchasers accept their lot with good grace
partly because 56 percent of them expect to move on eventually into better
houses with more elbowroom. They admit “the trimmings are cheaply done,”’
as one housewife put it, but they like the layout of the rooms (45 percent
glossy-looking kitchens (37 percent) and having plenty of closet and storage
space (19 percent). Ten percent of our sample had to make no down payment
at all; for the rest, the down payment was so low that 59 percent were able to
cover it with savings, two thirds said they had no difficulty in raising it. Three
fourths have no difficulty in making the monthly payments. When they think
about it, however, the price of this easy financing hurts: more than three
fourths are convinced that interest rates on mortgages are too high.

Our survey was confined to young wives (none over 38, and the majority
in their twenties) who, with their husbands, had bought their first house
within the last two years. We deliberately sought a select group—young people
who could afford better than low-cost housing. Three fourths of the hus-
bands were in the professions or had white-collar jobs, all but 10 percent had
finished high school, and nearly half had gone on to some form of higher educa-
tion. Poe percent had one, two or three children. All had bought new
construction in the middle- or upper-price range.

Wl hat does our booming housing industry offer these buyers in the early
years of F the il maitiage? Our survey reached to the four corners of the country,
but the picture that emerges is surprisingly the same. The typical “first

house”’ is on a quarter acre or less of land, has three bedrooms and something

The qual-

perhaps

1
thar

more than one fu t is a one-story dwelling—only 5 percent of our fami-
hes had fe house to buy. However, the body of new housing
going up 1s conservative in style; only 14 percent of our homeowners had
bought a house they designated as “‘ modern.”’ Ranch, split-level and something
called ‘‘one-story Colonial” sweep the field that is bulldozed into a real-estate
dey lop J

For most of the young people who move into them, their purchase is such
a major experience that leaves them shaky. More than half are willing to
agree, when asked, that homeownership has made them ‘‘more stable and
conservative.’’ A fifth speak spontaneously of pride, almost as many say they
feel more secure and independent, but these feelings do not equate with
“happiness.” Only 9 percent spontaneously described themselves as happier,

JAY MAISEL

and when asked if their home gave them more worries, a resounding 66 percent
said yes. The carefree days of renting are gone.

Typical of the mixture of pride and worries is the Michigan wife who said,
‘Sometimes I feel that too much money goes into the house, but I never felt
such pride in anything.”’ Said one young California wife, ““Buying a home
the largest single expense ever incurred by a family. Such a thing
is a very grave and sobering experience.”’

But when asked directly, almost 70 percent agreed that they do indeed
enjoy new feelings of security and “‘belonging,’’ feelings shared by their hus-
bands. “‘ We feel more secure—as though we’re working for a goal.”’. . . ““You
take pride in creating things such as flower gardens, and so on. It gives youa
feeling of security and belonging somewhere.” ‘““My husband is proud,
and more confident of himself as a husband, father and wage earner.” Most
like it this way (from Illinois: “‘We spend more money on the house, less on
ourselves. We enjoy staying home more than going out’’), and a-tiny 1 percent
don’t (from New York: “‘ We used to go for lots of drives, now I have to drag
him out. He wants to stay home and work!”’

The majority of our wives (53 percent) had lived in their new homes for
over a year, and so had had plenty of time to decide whether they like good
modern-house design. Most do; only 3 percent of our sample could find nothing
to like about their houses. The enthusiasm of a California housewife is typical:

““We have a spacious living-dining area, and an attractive view from there
and the master bedroom. Kitchen design, work area and breakfast area
arrangements are practical and attractive. Level yard, just the right size.
Good central floor plan, no poor traffic areas, a large rumpus room downstairs
that’s wonderful for children’s play and parties.”

As our housewives listed the things they liked best, however, the things
most apt to enter their minds first were those that hike housing costs: wall
ovens, stainless-steel sinks, two sinks in the bathroom, plenty of big closets,
marble sills, three fireplaces, nine oak trees, a community (co-operative)
swimming pool, dead-end locations with two acres of land, and above all, that
most costly of items, spaciousness—a word that time and again our wives
applied reverently to everything from broom closets to mountain views.

Those in middle-cost houses were more apt to list likes such as “‘excellent #
layout,” “‘easy to keep clean,” “‘the neighborhood, with lots of friends for
my children,” or “our location, convenient to a shopping center.”’

When invited to list their dislikes, the exasperations of cheap construction |
poured forth. Space, or lack of it, was most frequently mentioned. “‘Rooms
entirely too small,’ summed up a disgruntled South Carolinian. ‘‘The floor
Space In our house is eleven hundred square feet, which I feel is a little in-
adequate,” said a West Virginian. A particular grievance is a kitchen so small
that all eating must take place in a “dining area’”’ that is part of the living
room. ‘This results in a small living area,’”’ pointed out one. ‘‘It’s hard to
arrange a nice dinner party,” said another. “‘The children’s spilled mashed
potatoes are ruining my rug,” said a third.

Formal dining rooms cost money, but underlying the great majority of
the complaints is a persistent feeling among our young

is usually

CONTINUED ON PAGE 30

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| marrieds that things could have been better

for the same price. A substantial portion of the
complaints had to do with poor planning,
and their favorite argument is that better plan-
ing needn’t have cost much more. A layout
that doesn’t bring all bedroom and kitchen
trafic through the living room, perhaps an
extra entrance at the back, seem to them
basic rights for all price ranges. Miscellaneous
complaints of thoughtlessness were many:
“Our house could have been built with more
personality at very little additional cost.”

| ...““Theychopped downall our trees to fill in the

backyard!” . . . “House does not take ad-
vantage of lot. The picture window should
have been put in back.” Several told of doors
that swung into tiny rooms instead of out into
empty halls (they rehung them themselves),
and one mother told a harrowing tale of her
wall-oven door that swings out across the
kitchen doorway: “Although I told my small
son to watch out, he ran into the kitchen and
burned his face on the open oven door.”

By far the biggest body of complaints, how-
ever, had to do with shoddy construction or
workmanship. Over half our sample (56 per-
cent) had run into one or more problems of
cheap materials, poor workmanship, faulty
plumbing, drainage or heating systems, cracks
in the walls or poor paint jobs. These com-
plaints are angrier too. “Let the buyer be-
ware’’ may be an old saying in the market-
place, but our young householders are still
taken by shocked surprise when, having pur-
chased their houses, they discover the insula-
tion is poor (“Cost of heating our house is
way out of line; drafty in winter, hot upstairs
in summer”’), the soundproofing nonexistent
(“We have an attached house; we can hear
them sneeze next door’’), the wiring scanty
(“No overhead lights in the bedrooms’’) and
the heating system cheap (“We can’t shut off
the heat flow in any one room; to keep the
baby’s room heated, we must have heat in
our bedroom even though we don’t want it’’).

One third (32 percent) have run into flagrant
cases of poor workmanship, a few of them
truly calamitous: “The basement wall col-
lapsed and had to be replaced at our expense,
which we thought would be the responsibility
of the contractor.” Reports one indignant
householder, “Our well leaks into the window
and into the basement. The tiles are sloughing
off in the shower.’ Reports another, “Our
pump was replaced twice, and the tank three
times at the builder’s expense, because he kept
installing inferior equipment.”

Our husbands and wives have mopped up
in basements that “‘leak like a sieve’ and cor-
rected reversed faucets (“Any /iterate person
should get the faucets on straight’), but they
don’t believe they should have to, no matter
how little they paid for the house. As one

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Texas housewife puts it, “Our house lacks |
real quality. The windows leak. The cabinets
in the kitchen were varnished very sloppily.
No care was taken to fit the tile perfectly in
the corners. We have no heat whatever in the
bedrooms.” There is a recurring refrain:
“The wallboard job is terrible; after one year
there are cracks around almost every nail... .
“The paint job is terrible; paint washes off
with one hard wipe.” Tiling, painting and
plastering seem to be special areas where pur-
chasers feel shortchanged. From Florida, “We
didn’t expect $20,000 features for $13,000, but,
for example, our floor tile is the cheapest tile.
This wouldn’t be so bad if they had hired
someone who knew how to lay it. There are
places that were never stuck down. My hus-
band. has helped lay tile, and does ten times
better than the workmen on this house.”

One villain emerges in these complaints: thé
builder. No matter how low his profit marging
he is blamed for everything, from warped
doors to leaking casements. Said one Michi-
gan wife tartly, when asked what she would
look for in the next house she bought, “‘A bet-
ter builder—one who gives quality for what
you pay.” Many evidently have major cause
for complaint: “Our contractor refuses to
make repairs under the warranty. If all repairs
were made, I couldn’t think of one kick... ..
“No provision was made for venting the
clothes dryer, although the contractor was
repeatedly told.”” Said one of our basement
moppers, “Our plumbing is poor, yet the
builder told us what an excellent job he had }
done.” A wife from Pennsylvania has become |
perhaps excessively disillusioned: “I used to
be very easygoing. Since building, I have
learned that if you don’t look out for your-
self, nobody else does. My husband and I are
calloused now in dealing with businessmen.” |

Perhaps because their houses are still new}
in their lives, often undistinguished, and al-|
most certainly not built by themselves for
themselves, according to their own specifica-
cations, our homeowners do not regard their
first house as a vital ingredient to their mar-
riage and family life. Three quarters of our
wives said owning a home had made “‘no dif-}
ference” in their marriages or their closeness
to their husbands. Two thirds don’t care®™
whether their children live in the house after:
they are gone, and three fourths consider it)
unlikely that any of their children will.

Four in ten of our wives do expect to live in|
their new houses for the rest of their own lives, |
however, and whether they plan to stay or go,
almost all have traditional attitudes toward)
keeping it attractive, maintaining it respon
sibly, and enjoying it as a status symbol. Two
thirds of the husbands have a “great deal” of
interest in keeping it up, and a large 83 percent
do minor repairs. Wives are definitely non-

CONTINUED ON PAGE 121

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THIS
MARRIAGE
ot
SAVED?

SHE: “‘Joe is indifferent to the embarrass-
ment his miserliness causes me both at
home and in the office.”’

HE: “Every week of our marriage Ina has
spent money, a remarkable amount of
money, on bowling.”’

mA (66

INA TELLS HER SIDE: “The week after Joe and I
came back from our honeymoon I handed over my pay-
check to him,” said thirty-two-year-old Ina, childless
and twice married. ‘‘ Joe then doled back to me trans-
portation money, lunch money, coffee-break money,
one-package-of-cigarettes money. These items were
listed on our budget to cover my spending.

‘Joe is my second husband. We have now been
married four years. He still collects my personal
earnings, which he invests, and we pay our living
expenses from his earnings. Our living expenses, I can
assure you, are held to rock bottom. He sees to that.

“Joe has done extremely well with his real-estate
and stock-market investments. I had a much nicer
wardrobe when I earned a lower salary and was on
my own. Joe screams to high heaven if I buy an extra
pair of shoes. I’m supposed to make do with four
pairs of shoes a year, the number stipulated in our
ironclad budget, and never mind changes in style.

“Everybody except Joe and his Uncle Alvin re-
gards our financial setup as plain crazy. Uncle Alvin,
a millionaire bachelor with the same _ penurious
streak, is Joe’s employer. Joe and I have already
saved and accumulated more than the average couple
acquires ina lifetime. His sound investments are partly
responsible for our good fortune, but also he and I
together bring in an income way above the average.

“A year ago I was picked by my company to
supervise the stenographic pool. and my salary
jumped from $400 to $500 a month. I’m reasonably
sure Joe earns quite a bit more than that. He tries to
keep everything about our money matters a deep dark
secret, and has always treated me like a fiancial
moron. I can add and subtract, however, and I have
eyes and ears.

“ Joe’s uncle made his fortune wheeling and dealing
in bankrupt properties, ranging from tax-delinquent
rooming houses to secondhand-car lots and vacant
grocery stores. Joe’s official title with the outfit is

essentially the road lo succe

Mrs. Kay Sinclair.

‘chief accountant’—he is a wizard at figures—but he
also functions as his uncle’s striker, chore boy and
general handyman. Uncle Alvin feels quite free to call
our house at any time. There is nothing Joe likes
better than to sit down at the phone and meekly
accede to a string of outrageous orders, and then ask
his uncle’s advice about our investments.

“T’m positive his basic salary runs between $600
and $700 a month. In addition to his regular job, he

“Every night he empties his pockets and my purse of all the coins
he can find, then like a miser happily feeds the piggy banks.”’

picks up another $200 or so a month by doing the
bookkeeping and income-tax returns for several of
Uncle Alvin’s associates. We don’t spend all Joe earns
by any means. It is almost impossible for me to

To have a successful marriage, one must concentrate on making the marriage a success. But at the
lart of married life many husbands and wives have had so little training in cooperation, so little ex-
perience of il, that they fail to give the marriage the right-of-way. Marriage counseling frequently
consists mainly in heading the partners toward the marriage instead of away from il, and helping them

ee whal they can do easily as a team, instead of two persons pulling in opposite directions. This was
in the marriage of Ina and Joe, here described, which was counseled by

PAUL POPENOE, Sc.D., the American Institute of Family Relations.

DON ORNITZ

*
‘
é

estimate the value of our various stock-market anc
real-estate holdings, or the amount of Joe’s dividend
and profits, but I’m sure we must be worth betwee1
$30,000 and $40,000. To my certain knowledge w
have $3000 in cash in a savings account; the othe
day I came across Joe’s bankbook, hidden unde
neath a pile of his shirts.
“But Joe still isn’t satisfied. Every night before h
goes to bed he empties his pockets and my purse of a!
the coins he can find. He then happily feeds a row C
piggy banks lined up in our living room. Just las!
month he and I had a knock-down drag-out fight—
loathe fighting—before I could get the money to bu§
a birthday present for my mother. Before I marrie}
Joe I often sent little gifts to my mother and my t |
unmarried sisters who lead lonely lives in Montanef
“T had no idea Joe would be the kind of husba
who treasures every dime and behaves as though hf
wife’s earnings were his exclusive property. When w
were introduced I was newly arrived in Los Angele
twenty-seven years old, and, to my regret, was |
divorcée. At thirty-one Joe was still a bachelor. I wz
astonished that such an attractive man had escape
all the single girls. Later on he told me that until t
evening he met me he hadn’t been interested in ma
riage because he’d found the vast majority of wome
were grasping and mercenary. I laughed off the remar
I supposed he was quoting from his Uncle Alvi
who hates women.
“However, I was careful to make few demands.
cooked dinner for him in my apartment whenever I
cared to come. In those days we had wonderful time§”
During our courtship he wasn’t stingy. It now seer!
incredible, but he took me to top restaurants, boug
theater tickets in the orchestra, learned to bowl by
cause it was my favorite form of recreation. I soi
fell in love with Joe, deeply in love, but I waited s
or seven months before I accepted his proposal. I hi
been badly shaken by my previous failure as a wil
But Joe was completely unlike Harry, who w
hopelessly irresponsible. i
“At that time Joe’s industry and ambition struj :
me as wonderful, and I was able to ignore his repeat”
cracks about the greed, selfishness and all-arou|
idiocy of the feminine sex. Anyhow, I finally deci
I could convince him with loving, unselfish dee ke
that there was one woman in the world—me!—w
wasn’t out to get everything she could from a
“T grew up with few advantages. My father drift ,
from one job to another, and in my childhood |
always lived in rented, rattletrap houses. My fig
husband and I occupied a furnished room, and I pi
the rent. When I said yes to Joe I knew exactly wh :
kind of house I wanted for us—ranch-type, three b
rooms, two baths, an L-shaped kitchen with a built®
double oven. The night he gave me my engagemé
ring—a nice ring too—I gave up my dream 0
dream house. CONTINUED ON PAG)

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CAN THIS MARRIAGE
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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 32

“Tt turned out that Joe already owned a
house—a huge, drafty house on a run-down
block miles from my office. A two-family
dwelling ! Joe said we could live there at no
expense because our tenants’ rent would
carry the taxes, repairs, mortgage payments.
I was appalled by the idea.

“We did the redecorating ourselves. I had
expected we would hire a professional painter.
One evening the wife of his tenant—she is
still our next-door neighbor—dropped in and
introduced herself. She congratulated me on
my skill with a paintbrush and told Joe he
was awfully lucky to be marrying such an
energetic wife. Joe laughed and said it wasn’t
luck; that he was trying me out in advance.
To this day I can recall the queer blank feeling
that swept over me.

“IT wanted wall-to-wall carpeting and real
draperies instead of cheap glass curtains; I
have never had real draperies. The night Joe
ruled out draperies and carpeting I was
tempted to break our engagement. I didn’t
say a word, not one. Somehow I couldn’t get
up the nerve to tell him how I longed for a few
luxuries. For some reason, I went along with
whatever he suggested like a person hypno-
tized.

“T certainly was under his spell the day I
lost control of my own earnings. It was shortly
before our wedding and Joe was explaining
to me the merits of the budget he had figured
out for us to follow. In the midst of the budget
pep talk Joe pointed out that I had made good
wages for years without saving anything, and
it might be best for him to handle both our
paychecks until we accumulated what he called
a ‘nest egg.’ I agreed. In fact, | was so dumb
and so much in love that I signed a sort of pre-
marital contract drawn up by him, in which I
promised to stick to that original budget un-
less he agreed in writing to changes.

“Our honeymoon trip started out fine. In
the beginning our sexual relationship was per-
fect. We went to a glamorous hotel in San
Francisco for the weekend and fiew on to a
Canadian lodge where we were scheduled to
stay two weeks. On Friday of our first week
Joe happened to see a newspaper and he
learned there had been a drop in the stock
market. He canceled the remainder of our trip;
we returned home, and on Monday morning
both of us reported back at our desks.

Je is quite indifferent to the embarrass-
ment that his miserliness causes me both at
home and in the office. Because he has always
toted a lunch box to work he argues that I
should be willing to carry sandwiches to my
office. lam so strapped for pocket money that
I habitually owe small sums everywhere—to
the office petty-cash account, to the drugstore,
to the garage for five gallons of gas.

“IT was chosen by the big bosses to be head
supervisor mainly because of my popularity
among the scores of girls in the stenographic
pool. One of the reasons for my popularity is
that I am captain of the company bowling
team. Just last June Joe tried to keep me from
attending the annual out-of-town tournament
held by all the Pacific Coast branches of my
company. He objected to my parting with the
necessary expense money. So I held back a
paycheck on him (as I’ve done occasionally)
and went. When I came home Joe didn’t com-
pliment me on our victory, and he sneered at
my silver trophy.

“His penny pinching damages him in his
own field, limits his potential. He is a mathe-
matical genius. What he should do is throw
up his job with his uncle and go on his own.
He is so obsessed with the thought of Uncle
Alvin’s money—he appears to believe the
secret of the million might miraculously rub
off on him—that he refuses to resign. In Joe’s
opinion, his uncle is perfect. He thinks it’s
dandy of Uncle Alvin to provide him with a
new-model car every other year, pay for the
insurance and the gasoline.

“Joe drives to the farthest reaches of town
at any hour at his uncle’s bidding; he performs
the most menial chores. Several weeks ago he
and I had one of our rare engagements—Joe is

too busy for fun—and he was unconscionably
late. Finally, in my car, I tracked him down in
a dingy apartment building his uncle had just
acquired. He was on his hands and knees
scrubbing the public lobby. He said the ex-
perience would come in handy when he and I
owned apartment buildings.

“T don’t want to own an apartment building
at some hazy date in the distant future. I want
to own a nice home, with a modern kitchen,
right now! I want to have a little pleasure and
a few good times while I’m young enough to
enjoy myself. I want to give modest presents to
my relatives and friends without feeling guilty.
I want some pretty clothes. I have frequently
reminded Joe that we now have a nest egg,
and have suggested that we start living like
other people. My words make no impression
on him.

“Perhaps if he and I could have had chil-
dren he might have learned a little generosity.
I’ve had no luck at becoming pregnant, al-
though last year I visited a number of different
gynecologists for help. Joe does want chil-
dren, I think. But I’ve just about reached the
point where I don’t want a child by him.

‘His stinginess has spoiled our sexual rela-
tionship, which was once ideal. I used to love
to put my arms around him, but now I shrink
from his touch. It’s been several months since
we’ve shared the same ted. I used to enjoy
bowling with Joe, but now I won’t bowl with
him. He was a poor sport when his side lost.
He complained about the price of every frame
and if it was his turn to pick up the food or
beverage tab he usually managed to outfumble
the other men.

“When I bowl I go by myself. I stay away
from home and away from Joe as late at night
as possible. If I had the courage to let people
find out I had failed again in marriage, I hon-
estly believe I would sue for a divorce.”

JOE TELLS HIS SIDE:

“IT was brought up in the belief that wives
who loved their husbands were ambitious for
their men to succeed,” thirty-five-year-old
Joe announced with complete conviction. ‘I
am sure Ina married me—she took her own
sweet time to accept my ring—mainly because
she had me tagged as a financial winner. But
Ina is like all women; she wants to eat her
cake and have it too. She wants plush living
now and she also wants comfort and security
in the future.

“She can’t have it both ways. Ina is intelli-
gent enough to realize we are building a solid
foundation for the future. She should sympa-
thize with the problems facing me. At my age
Uncle Alvin, who started from scratch just
like me, already had his first million. My uncle
wasn’t hobbled by today’s tax structure. In
the light of modern conditions, I’ve done well.
Tomorrow morning I could call on my banker
for a loan of $75,000 and with my collateral
there is no question I would get the loan. Not
many men of thirty-five are in that position.

“If Ina was the average wife she would
boast of my accomplishments. She should be
happy to carry her share of the load and for

the time being help me round out our invest-
ment program with her earnings. She should
be willing to live with a budget that allows for
everything a sensible woman could possibly
require. At this moment there are twenty-three
pairs of shoes in Ina’s closet; I counted them
just yesterday. In the four years of our mar-
riage I have bought two pairs of shoes while
she has bought seventeen pairs, as I can show
you by my account books.

“Before our marriage Ina and I discussed
my hopes and ambitions at length. She clearly
understood and she approved of my plans for
us. Indeed, she agreed in writing to abide by
the terms of our budget and to help me ac-
cumulate working capital by investing her
earnings for our mutual benefit.

Toss year she held back her paycheck on
nine different occasions. In the process she
dribbled away more than one thousand dol-
lars. As a direct consequence she and I lost
the opportunity to make an investment last
November, highly recommended by my uncle,
that has tripled in value. What did Ina buy
with the money she wasted ? Clothes, recreation,
gifts. Those unnecessary shoes. Two dresses,
three pairs of Capri pants with blouses, one
wool suit, stockings and underwear. She
needed the suit and underwear and perhaps a
third of the stockings she acquired.

“Two years ago Ina begged me for a sewing
machine so she could ‘save money’ on clothes.
Shortly afterward I attended an auction and
bid in at a bargain the model she wanted, still
in the original packing case. I surprised her
with the sewing machine as an advance birth-
day present. She has done no sewing. And
when her birthday rolled around, she declared
the sewing machine wasn’t a ‘real’ present and
that I owed her another gift.

“Every week of our marriage Ina has spent
money, a remarkable amount of money, on
bowling. In June of last year, according to my
books, she blew in $97.65 at an out-of-town
tournament. The cost of her bowling averaged
out last year at $39 a month, a mathematical
fact she hotly disputes.

“In addition to buying unnecessary clothes
for herself, Ina bought clothes for her mother
and two unmarried sisters. Her Christmas gift
to her mother, who lives on a Montana ranch
and rarely goes out socially, was an expensive
fur-trimmed coat. Her mother’s birthday gift
from Ina was a fur-trimmed suit. Both sisters
received coats, hats and gloves for Christmas,
and Ina concealed from me what she sent on
their birthdays.

“‘Whenever I speak of this absurdity, Ina
flares up and says I am too selfish and stingy to
help my family. My parents would tell you a
different story, although I know better than to
send them clothing. My father is no money-
maker and mother’s clothes are limited, but
she wouldn’t thank me for a fur-trimmed coat.
In fact, my parents and my two married
brothers, neither of whom is rich in anything
but children, would think I had lost my com-
mon sense and was trying to lord it over them
if I lavished needless, costly gifts on them.

“Sometimes [ think [ married too young. I
went right from homework to housework.”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

“When I help my parents and my brothers,
I help in practical ways. Five years ago I saw
to it that my eldest brother, Harold, the father
of six children, was able to borrow a large
down payment on a commodious house,
which means his monthly charges are small.
Earlier, with Uncle Alvin’s co-operation, I
arranged in a similar fashion for my kid
brother to buy a trailer truck, avoid the usual
heavy service charges, and have a means of
earning a decent livelihood for himself and
his family.

““My parents own their home, but my father
is retired. Over the past few years I’ve devoted
hours of my time—time is money, you know—
to assure them an adequate income. I invested
and reinvested their pitiful savings until now
they have $10,0CO in liquid assets plus a fai
yield in dividends.

““At one time my father was a high-salaried
automotive engineer, but he is impractical, up
realistic and a profound pessimist, and I ha#e
never felt close to him. When I was still in ele-}
mentary school a mild recession in Flint
Michigan, cost father his job and his courage
too. He never recovered from the blow. While
he sat at home and bemoaned his fate. mothe}
bustled around doing odd jokts to support us
and vainly seeking to re-establish him.

“During that period my Uncle Alvin, her
only brother, came on from California and !
met him. He stayed in our house overnight}
I can still remember Uncle Alvin peeling bill:
from a big roll held by a rubber band. H.:
visit made quite an impression on me. Tha’
same week my mother carried a letter of in:
troduction my uncle wrote for her to thi
president of the Michigan title company tha|
held the mortgage on our house. |

Beek of Uncle Alvin’s letter my unem)
ployed father was offered an adequately paii|
but lower-status job, which he reluctantly ac}
cepted. He was put in charge of superintendin) '
the maintenance and repairs on all the houses
apartments, office and loft buildings on t |
title-company list. Many an afternoon as |
schoolboy I worked under father’s directio:
cleaning furnaces, replacing broken wind
panes, shoveling snow, burning trash. I hate
the work, but I liked the wages.

“Way back in those days, at the age of nin,
and ten, I kept two piggy banks going. §
wouldn’t come home for supper unless I haf
earned a minimum of eleven cents. One afteif
noon I recall I vainly looked everywhere fcf
chores, eventually stopped in a restaurant. TER
owner kept me washing dishes until eleve®
p.M., but I was paid a dollar. My mother didn,
scold me for being late. Instead she warmep
up supper for me and told my brothers I we |
the family go-getter.

“Unlike my wife, my mother has aval
been pleased by my ambition. She went wi
me to the bank on the day I opened my fin
savings account; for a woman, mother has)
sound financial head. Most kids throw awé|
their money as though money was a free conf”
modity. Few kids understand that money bf
gets money. Before I entered junior high Iwg
lending other boys twenty-five cents to bij
sodas for their girls, and collecting thirty-fi
cents at the end of the week. Mother wre}
Uncle Alvin a number of times about nf
progress, but he isn’t much of a corresponde fl
and we never heard from him. |

“Ten years ago at the age of twenty-fivé a
found myself with my education complet f
and earning $500 a month, but I was stuck
Flint with a dead-end industry. One eveni
wrote Uncle Alvin a long, detailed letter 1)
lating my qualifications, experience, curré|
salary, hopes for the future. I offered to tr@)
West at my own expense for an interview
him and to accept any job in his organizaticy
regardless of its prestige, at any salary he >
posed. I heard from him by airmail, the fiff
and only letter I’ve ever got from him. He?
fered mea salary of $250 a month—a 50 p
cent cut, you may observe—to become -
assistant and chief accountant.

“Even nowas Il approach my tenth fullyealy,
my uncle’s employ, I work for considera
less than | am worth and I handle me
tedious assignments. No money could buy
postgraduate education I have gained fr

CONTINUED ON PAGE

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 34

Uncle Alvin. My opportunity to study his
business methods, his way of sizing up a piece
of real estate, evaluating a stock issue, a com-
plicated commercial deal, has already guided
me into a number of fine investments. I’ve
made many valuable business contacts
through Uncle Alvin.

“Someday—a day not too far off, in my
opinion—I’m bound to hit and then Ina will
be the wife of a rich man. She has only to be
patient. Actually, she is sacrificing very little.
Our home is old-fashioned, but it’s a better
house than Ina ever lived in before, and it’s
mortgage-free. She owns a paid-up car, with
the title in her name.

“She now feels abused if I hint that she
might economize on the gasoline and oil she
burns while pleasure-driving. She tells every-
body I am tightfisted in the matter of recrea-
tion, and take her nowhere. Three or four eve-
nings a week she goes bowling and will not
permit me to accompany her. She doesn’t
mind that I get lonesome. When she does come
in at a late hour, she tosses a cool hello at me.
For months I have been forbidden her bed.

“Like all men, I want children. Ina used to
profess that she, too, was eager to start a fam-
ily. Last year she and I visited several leading
specialists in order to discover why she had not
become pregnant. Apparently there is nothing
really wrong with either of us, but the fact
remains that we have no children.

“Our marriage has drawbacks, but it has
compensations. I would prefer more com-
panionship, affection and tenderness—my wife
often says that she stays with me only because
she dreads to admit a second failure—but I
admire Ina’s ability, her good qualities. In my
estimation she and I are better off together
than we would be apart. She would be foolish
to divorce a man with my prospects.”

THE MARRIAGE COUNSELOR SAYS:

“Frankly, I was doubtful I could be of help
in this case. Ina and Joe had a number of
strikes against them. On the surface both
young people appeared to be stubborn and in-
flexible, unequal to the hard work of making
habit changes and personality changes.

“Joe’s hostility to the feminine sex was ob-
vious; Ina’s hostility to the masculine sex, an
attitude probably borrowed from a disap-
pointed, overworked mother, was only slightly
less obvious. This hostility was demonstrated
by her jealousy of Uncle Alvin. Joe disclosed
his antiwoman bias not only by his tiresome
gibes but by jealousy of Ina’s mother and
sisters.

“During our initial interviews it seemed to
me that neither Joe nor Ina had much interest
either in improving their marriage or in pre-
serving it. She appeared to be little concerned
with Joe and his needs as a human being. She
seemed more concerned with (a) her prowess
as a bowler, and (b) with what people, par-
ticularly her kinfolk, might think of her if she
filed for a second divorce. Joe struck me as
callous and self-centered, a genuine miser, a
man whose preoccupation with acquiring
money had frozen him emotionally.

“TI found out I was badly mistaken in my
first impressions. It soon developed that Ina
was far more important to Joe than money; in-
deed, that he was very dependent on her, that
to keep her as a wife he was willing to make
drastic concessions. What I had overlooked
was that Joe envied Uncle Alvin his riches, but
was anything but envious of his uncle’s love-
less, bachelor life.

“In my third interview with Joe I bluntly in-
formed him that though it was easy for him to
find pleasure in the assets he was piling up, it
was virtually impossible for Ina. All the de-
cisions, the kudos, the gratifications were his.
From her point of view her youth was slipping
away in dull making do and doing without.
Though I could appreciate his desire to provide
for their future security, I predicted that unless
he loosened the purse strings she was almost
certain to rebel against the constant strain and
walk out on him. [twas clear Joe had previously
written off Ina’s threats of divorce as mere
woman talk, nothing serious. His consterna-
tion was plain. His action was immediate.

“To Ina’s astonishment (and mine) Joe
proved in one weekend how much his marriage

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

meant to him. He devoted the weekend to
studying his various account books. At our
Monday interview he voluntarily modified his
ideas on household spending.

“To begin with, he agreed that Ina could
spend $75 a month (which she had earned, of
course) exactly as she chose and without ex-
planations to him. Oddly enough, Joe’s
jealousy of his in-laws diminished as soon as
he allowed Ina to stop reporting on the gifts
she was sending them. He took a second un-
precedented step and opened a joint checking
account. His dour conviction that a joint ac-
count would lead to wild bookkeeping con-
fusion wasn’t justified by events. Ina has sel-
dom slipped in balancing her checkbook and
almost always remembers to fill in her stubs:
In a third step, Joe explained his investmen
program to Ina in detail. She was delighted to’
be the recipient of his confidences and as®
natural consequence she became less resistap (
to his determined efforts to save and to plan
ahead. |

““As she came to comprehend the fun Joe
and Uncle Alvin got from their commercial
exploits and dickering, she learned to share in
the fun by cheering for Joe. This took time. It
also took time for Joe to understand that his
subservience to his uncle was expensive to his
self-respect and lowered him in the eyes of the
older man. But Joe finally grasped this point]
With considerable trepidation he announcec|
he was quitting the organization to open a
private office.

“Results were quick. When Joe’s Uncle Alvir
realized that he could no longer exploit his
talented nephew, that he might lose his

Let your every act and word and though*
be those of a man ready to depart from
life this moment. MARCUS AURELIU®

services, he atoned handsomely. Joe’s salary
was raised by one third, he was cut in for
a small percentage of the net profits of the
business, and his duties were permanently
upgraded.

“‘Joe’s concessions and changes eased tht
roadway to change for Ina. After he abandonec
his unpleasant cracks at women, she easill
learned to curb her unkind remarks. Sht
ceased to torment Joe with statements tha
fear of gossip and maternal disapproval)
rather than love for him, bound her to tht
marriage. In my opinion, Ina was much fonde!
of Joe than she herself knew; otherwise, sht
wouldn’t have tolerated his budgetary de
mands and bullying for so long. In her owr
way, she was as dependent on Joe as he on her
Through counseling, she became aware of tht
fact.

“Ina acknowledged that her expert bowl
ing—she was far superior to the average man—:
might account in part for Joe’s poor sports
manship and could hardly be expected t
recommend the game to him. She resignet
from three of the five leagues to which she be!
longed. Nowadays she declines to bowl on an
evening he cannot accompany her, unless he i
busy with a rare overtime job. She doesn’
leave him rattling around at home, alone ani
lonesome. Joe’s game has improved with pra¢
tice—and now they mostly bowl in partner
ship.

“They still occupy the old-fashioned house
but recently they installed a modern kitche
and Ina is now pleased with her home. As ye
they have no children, but it isn’t for lack
effort. A year ago Ina’s gynecologist suggest
that a long period of absolute leisure mi
lead to pregnancy. She requested and receiv
a six-month leave of absence from her em)
ployers. Her hopes and Joe’s hopes were mc,
fulfilled,

“Shortly afterward Joe dropped by my of}
fice with the bad news. I sympathized wit!
him. As we parted, he grinned ruefully any
said his financial affairs were booming, that}!
seemed highly likely he and Ina would hav)
their first million before they had their firs}
child.””
Editors’ Note: This case history was compiled and col)
densed from actual records by

DOROTHY CAMERON DISNEY

’

APRIL, 1962

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THERE See
ANnles OS

BY HARLAN MILLER

One of our town’s neurotic Lotharios fell in
love with a model pictured winking in a per-
fume ad. He’ll buy a gallon of the perfume if
he can take her (ahem!) to lunch next time
he’s in New York.

A psychiatrist I know is going after the tot
trade. “‘The healthiest thing to teach a
child,”’ he tells me, ‘‘is to say ‘I goofed!’”’

Two of our town’s gilt-edged execs rode
home during the winter’s worst blizzard ona
neighbor farmer’s horse. One of ’em with
briefcase under his arm even tipped his hom-
burg to a farmwife who peeped at him as
he rode by.

Shucks, all the lovebirds in our town quarrel.
I got a play-by-play of a newlyweds’ tiff;
they quarreled over whether she was miracu-
lous or merely wonderful.

On April Fools’ Day my poise survives 1m-
maculate; I am a debonair butt of any and
all jokes, partly because I feel a bit of a fool
on the first of every month.

If no women are listening, we men might as
well confess that a woman’s ardent smile
is the Golden Fleece, the Holy Grail, the
pot of gold, the sedative, the opiate, the
restorative.

I know a highbrow who has tried for twenty
years to read Sandburg’s four-volume Lin-
coln. He’s failed, and now he’s paying $7.50
for a one-volume condensation.

Our young captain’s blond wife swears she
loves life in the Tactical Air Command and
will love it even better when she breaks 100
on Langley Field’s golf links.

I'll surprise my Dream Girl by pretending
the twenty-fifth of every month is Christ-
mas. ... With presents too; but on Decem-
ber 25 we agree to give only one present to
each beloved.

When the stingiest millionaire takes his
family to the pancake palace for brunch, his
wife orders only coffee, but snacks off his
plate like a madman. He grudgingly admires
this.

Fame at last! I’m renowned locally as the
inventor of a new hors d’oeuvre: peanut but-
ter on a crisp biscuit, with a dash of horse-
radish. Some of our older families are reserv-
ing their verdict.

Luckily, the 1962 bride needn’t worry too
much about her cooking if her supermarket
carries a good brand of tinned beef stroga-
noff or chicken cacciatore.

If you see a lone feminine driver snorting
through traffic at a fast clip early in the day,
be gallant: she’s probably a teacher a few
minutes late to her first class.

’

“Spring is busting out all over,’ murmurs
Betty Comfort, prodding a snowbank for the
first crocus, ‘but a little more to the south
of us.”

I still remember fondly the preacher’s
daughter who uttered the shortest grace I
ever heard: “‘For this bountiful repast, O
Lord, thanks awfully.”

I have moments when I think a general
could instill more patriotism into his raw
recruits by reading aloud to ’em Whittier’s
Barbara Frietchie than by making an origi-
nal speech.

... When my daughter-in-law creates for me
a work of art to show waitresses how I'd like
my tea served in two pots,

.. . Or Patrick goes through his tonsillec-
tomy with the gallant courage of a member
of the Foreign Legion,

... And Harlan III promises mischievously
to put a frog in my ear,

... Or my daughter and her man send me
Picasso and Van Gogh art books despite
their secret belief that I’m a lowbrow,

... And my Dream Girl condenses her cor-
rections of my peccadilloes to fewer than 100
words, smilingly,

Then I soar like Icarus on wings of wax and
feathers, and the warm sun cheers my shoul-
der blades, and I sip a toast to wedlock.

Nes Be
t
;

Be Liliiiwe

“Ralph really has only one fault.
He can’t seem to do anything right.”

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“Tt was touch and go
with your baby

for a while, Alice,
but she’s fine.

That new fetal-heart-

monitoring machine

was quite a help.”

“T just wanted to tell you I’m starting
for the hospital, Doctor.’’ Alice Winston’s
voice over the phone was as gay as if she
were off to a party.

“The contractions are coming regularly ?”
the doctor asked.

“Yes, every five minutes. Look, Doctor,
it wasn’t my idea to have this baby right in
the middle of your office hours. Please
don’t come over until they send for you. I
don’t want all those other pregnant girls to
have to go home without seeing you.”

Alice Winston, who had worked as a reg-
istered nurse before her marriage, was a
delightful patient. Her consideration for
the doctor’s office schedule was character-
istic. This was Alice’s third baby, her preg-
nancy had been normal in all respects. She
had trained in the very maternity ward
where she was to be delivered. The interns
and Miss Elliott, the maternity supervisor,
the doctor knew, would see that she had
every attention.

“Well, Alice, if you’re absolutely sure—I
do have some rather urgent matters here.
I’ll be over as soon as I have finished with
them. Unless, of course, Miss Elliott should
call in the meantime.”

However, the doctor’s waiting room was

still full when Miss Elliott phoned. ‘“Doc-
tor, we’ve been noticing that when Alice
Winston has a contraction, especially a
strong one, the baby’s heart tones slow
quite noticeably. Occasionally there’s just
a little irregularity in the rhythm too. Alice
suspects something is going on, we’ ve been
listening to the baby’s heart tones s so often,
but she’s being an angel spon ites

“T’m starting this minute,” the doctor
said. ““Have the surgery ready for emer-
géncy Caesarean section. And keep taking
those heart tones. By the way, since Alice
already knows something is up and is so
level-headed, why don’t you set up that new
fetal-heart-tone monitor we’ve been trying
out, while I’m on my way over?”

When the doctor stepped into the labor
room, he could hear the gentle pulsations
of the heart f Alice’s unborn baby, sound-
ing through the room in the way he would

hear them through his stethoscope, but ex-
aggerated. The fetal-heart-tone monitor, a
machine which looked a good deal like a
television set, was already installed. Miss
Elliott, the senior resident and two interns
were watching while the technician fussed
with wires attached to Alice’s abdomen.

Alice was calm but said, making a little
face, ““The contractions are getting pretty
strong, Doctor. I don’t mind that so much.
But when they’re going on, I can’t hear the
baby’s heart tones.”

The doctor, applying his own stetho-
scope to Alice’s abdomen, found that the
baby’s heart was slowing abnormally dur-
ing the contractions. “When the uterine
muscles contract, Alice,’ he explained,
“they often make little noises of their own,
which muffle the baby’s heart tones tem-
porarily. But I’m going to be honest with
you. Your baby’s heart-rate variations are
greater than average, and there is an occa-
sional quite irregular heartbeat. Nothing
to be alarmed about, just something to
watch.”

At that precise moment the soft sound
of the baby’s pulse faltered as it came
through the machine, missed a beat or two,
picked up ina quick, irregular rhythm, then
fell back into a regular, reassuring sequence.

The doctor said, as though nothing had
happened, ‘““How would you like to see
some pictures of your baby’s heart action,
Alice?” He pointed to the screen of the
fetal-heart monitor, where now little trac-
ings were appearing. ““Your own heartbeat
is registering in that larger line of pen
scratches. The little ‘blip’ there, as we call
it, is the baby’s. The tracings are on the
order of an electrocardiogram. To have
the picture in addition to the sound is help-
ful, because it doesn’t blur during the
contractions.”’

While Alice followed the tracings on the
screen the doctor examined her, at the
same time unobtrusively inspecting her
pads and linens. There was no sign of
meconium, and that was good. The appear-
ance of meconium, fecal matter from the
fetus, is one of the indications that a baby

Pe TELL
m2 @ Vie
a Se DOCTOR

By GOODRICH C. SCHAUFFLER, M.D.

in the womb, or started through the birth
canal, may be in trouble.

Alice closed her eyes as she experienced
another contraction. “I can’t make much
out of those blips, Doctor, except that they
seem to be pretty jerky. Do they show
there is something wrong with my baby’s
heart ? Maybe a congenital defect ?”’

“T wouldn’t say so. More likely, the ir-
regularity is merely reflecting the amount
of oxygen the baby is getting. There may
be some slight interference with the cord
circulation that has cut down the baby’s
blood supply a bit.’’

Alice showed alarm for the first time.
“What if it gets worse?”

“We could do a Caesarean within fifteen
minutes, if necessary. But your labor has
been going along excellently, you are very
nearly ready for delivery. The head is so
far down, in fact, that we could extract it
with forceps if we had to, before the baby
could become seriously affected. We may
as well take you to the delivery room, you
are so well dilated and far along.”

As the doctor started to replace the sheet
over Alice, there was a show of meconium.
Alice was not aware of it, and the doctor’s
face betrayed nothing. He didn’t appear to
hurry, but once in the hall he issued swift
orders. Within six minutes Alice was in the
delivery room. Five minutes were used to
administer saddle-block anesthesia; within
a few minutes after that the patient was
scrubbed and draped. The doctor and his
assistants were ready too.

The “heart monitor,’ as the staff had
taken to calling it, had been moved to the
delivery room. Again, except during the
hardest contractions, they could hear the
baby’s pulsebeat, soft but quite regular.
The saddle block was relieving Alice’s pain,
but would not interfere either with the
contractions of the uterus or with the ba-
by’s oxygen supply. To increase this supply,
Alice was given some oxygen inhalations.

“The baby’s about ready,” the doctor
said. Just then its heart sounds stopped
briefly, began again very slowly. There was
a copious CONTINUED ON PAGE 45

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ONTINUED FROM PAGE 43

ischarge of meconium. But the cervix was
ifficiently dilated. With the aid of low for-
sps a little girl, slightly bluer and more list-
ss than normal, was quickly but gently deliy-
red. The complete placenta followed immedi-
tely—an unusual occurrence, to say the least.
As soon as the baby had left the birth
inal, the sound of her heartbeat stopped, as
ell as the little blip in the tracing on the
reen, though the scratches representing
lice’s heart action continued. The sudden
lence affected the attendants strongly. They
atched, awestruck, while the doctor un-
ound two complete loops of the cord from
round the baby’s neck, clamped and cut the
ord and laid the baby gently but quickly in
n oxygen-treated bassinet. She gurgled and
vit, breathed deeply, grew pinker, let out a
isty yell, and immediately stuck her little
st into her open mouth. It seemed to the doc-
yr that everyone in the delivery room started
reathing again simultaneously.

By the next morning, Alice was sufficiently
‘covered to learn what had happened. “You
‘e one of our medical family; I’m going to be
ank with you,” the doctor told her. “It was
close shave for the baby. A complete knot
as tied in the cord, besides two loops around
xr neck. She must have been doing some
etty fancy gymnastics shortly before she was
ym. At least, I didn’t catch any heart irregu-
rities on your last office visit. The shortened
rd pulled so hard on the placenta as the baby

je number of babies being born in the
iited States is increasing every year; the
mber of doctors is decreasing in propor-
n. Leading obstetricians are calling for
2 training of more nurse-midwives to as-
t doctors in pregnancy and childbirth
ses.

r information about the nurse-midwife
ining and the special schools that pro-
e it, write to the Maternity Center Asso-
ition, 48 East 92nd St., New York 28, N.Y.

cended that it was actually pulling the
centa loose from the wall of the uterus,
ting off oxygen to the baby. We were lucky
this one, Alice.”

Did the machine save my baby’s life?”
\No. You owe that to our fine staff here,
4 caught the heart irregularities and noti-
me before the machine had been set up.
Jat the machine did was to provide a con-
ious record of the baby’s heart action, do-
away with the necessity for constant moni-
ng by stethoscope. Also, the machine gives
he attendants an idea of what is happening
ie baby before birth. It’s good for teaching
jand I believe that it can be quite a help to
Our campaign to cut down the loss of
lives.”” eis

campaign, Doctor? Do tell me something
nt it!”

t’s simply that we obstetricians are con-
rating now on saving a higher proportion
ewborns. I think we have a right to be
id of our record in cutting down maternal
tality. Though, of course, we won’t be
fied so long as there is one mother death
could have been prevented. But we feel
>is much to be done toward reducing baby
as. We are making that our goal.”

hat’s wonderful! How do you propose to
999

. number of committees are studying the
em; they will probably come up with a
-answers. I would say offhand that one of
nportant things is to watch more closely
arly danger signals—heavier-than-normal
ing, heart irregularities, the appearance
2conium. You didn’t know it, Alice, but
was a discharge of meconium just after I
finished examining you. That’s why I
ced you off to the delivery room so rap-

isproportions between the size of the
and the birth canal can and should be
| out in advance. We can pay more at-
n to the position of the baby in the womb
0 its movements, for indications of a

shortened cord, or partial prolapse of the
cord.” f

“I should have thought of that myself,
Doctor,” Alice said. “*The baby did seem un-
usually lively, but it didn’t occur to me to re-
port to you.”

“Tt might have helped if you had. As I am
sure you know, the great foe to the baby at the
time of birth is oxygen shortage. We might
have started vitamin K as much as a week in
advance of delivery, though it can be adminis-
tered directly before a birth. It seems to cut
down the danger of bleeding, especially cere-
bral hemorrhage in the baby, which is the
commonest cause of death or brain damage
at the time of birth. It is especially valuable in
premature births. Lately, though, there’s been
some indication of unfavorable effect on the
baby’s blood. Oxygen inhalations, too, such
as you had, given the mother at time of deliv-
ery, may be lifesaving for certain babies.

ony

| hen we need to guard against labors that
are too long, or fatiguing or difficult. Forceps
or Caesarean section in these cases often can
save a baby that would otherwise be lost.”

“Since we are talking frankly, Doctor, how
about more careful use of anesthesia?” Alice
suggested. “During my nursing days, more
than once I saw a baby born in poor condition
when the mother was heavily anesthetized, or
oversedated.”’

“A great deal of attention is being given to
anesthesia and sedatives, Alice,’ the doctor
told her. “And it’s another point where I
believe the fetal-heart-monitoring machine
can be very useful. The continuous record it
furnishes of the baby’s heart action helps us
know what kind of anesthesia will be best
from the baby’s standpoint. And it indicates
when to cut down on anesthesia or pain-killers
to the mother.”

“Won’t the machine do away with the
necessity to have a highly trained person—the
doctor or interns, even registered nurses—in
constant attendance during labor, Doctor? I
know what a shortage of trained personnel
there is today.”

““No, Alice, never! That would be a grave
misuse. No machine can take the place of a
trained person on hand from the time labor
starts, alert for any or all signals of distress
from the baby. That’s where the rub comes in,
so far as our new campaign is concerned. The
patient’s own doctor should be there from the
start of labor whenever he can, and there by
all means if he suspects trouble may develop.
I would have met you at the hospital, Alice,
office patients or no office patients, if I had
known of the baby’s unusual liveliness, and
the possibility of cord involvement.

“But as you know, it isn’t always possible
for the doctor to be there, and the situation
is likely to get worse. We obstetricians are
becoming something of a diminishing breed.
There are fewer young men in training, in
relation to the increase in the number of
babies being born every year. A lot more of
you nurses should take the special midwife
course. It’s a great pity that the program has
been held back by antagonism in some quar-
ters, but mostly by inertia.”

“Don’t look at me, Doctor! I’m going to
have my hands plenty full at home, for a long
time to come.”

“T didn’t mean you individually, Alice, so
much as nurses as a group. A dedicated
maternity nurse like Miss Elliott probably
saves more baby lives than I do. To save all
the babies that can be saved, we doctors are
going to need whole platoons of people like
Miss Elliott to help us.”

Just then a student nurse brought in the
new baby, for the brief suckling period pre-
scribed before the mother’s milk comes in.
Alice reached her arms out hungrily, pressed
the baby close, laid her cheek tenderly against
the silky hair. When she looked up, her eyes
were wet.

“T can at least talk to all the girls I know
about becoming nurse-midwives, and I will.
And after my children are in school I think
I'll take the midwife training myself—if it will
help save other women’s babies, the way
mine was saved!”’

Next Month Dr. Schauffler discusses prevention of pel-
vic infections.

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EFORE: Mrs. Purnell didn’t
mind growing older, but she did
mind looking that way. “In my
youth,” she says, “I had some
style—now even that was gone.”

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AFTER: In three hours she lost
ten years, brightened her outlook
on life, and amazed everyone who
saw her (including the editors!).

Ra.

ROGER PRIGENT

TODAY, a year later, Mrs. Pur-
nell still looks ‘‘terrific’’—with-
out a bit of further help from us.

By DAWN CROWELL NEY

BEAUTY EDITOR

YOU'RE NEVER 100 OLD

10 LOOK YOUNG

DEAR BEAUTY EDITOR: I’m one of the millions who have looked at your pictures
of ‘“‘New Faces in Less Than a Day” and wonder what I can do to my “‘ole’’ face
and hair. Actually, at age fifty-five, I don’t know how I should look. I’m too old to
look young and too young to look old. Middle age is quite a problem. It would be
so nice to know there was something about me that was attractive. Can you help?

Very truly yours, |

MRS. MARGARET PURNELL
Watsontown, Pennsylvania

Convinced there isn’t a woman alive who is “‘too old to look young,” yet knowing |
Mrs. Purnell’s beauty worries were typical of many of our readers’, we answered |
that we would be delighted to help. Her “‘before’’ picture shows how she looked
when she arrived at our Beauty Workshop one morning at nine. Her ‘“‘after”
picture shows the way she looked at noon the same day. The improvement was
so dramatic we could hardly believe our own eyes. To make sure this was a
beauty story that could and would live happily ever after, we decided to post=
pone using it for a year. In that time we wanted to see how capably Mrs. Purnell
could maintain her newly youthful appearance without further attention from |
us. Her “‘year later’”’ picture speaks for itself. We believe any woman who want
to look ‘‘younger and prettier than ever” can easily tailor this beauty story toy
her own needs, and have similar success.
List your assets and deficits. Vital statistics working in Mrs. Purnell’s favor: even}
features; a clear complexion; a trim figure (she’s 5’6” tall and weighs 135 pounds)
a decision to trade in her spectacles for contact lenses. But even with these a .
sets Mrs. Purnell’s eighty-year-old mother was once prompted to admonishj
“Margaret, please don’t be hurt, but you remind me of one of those old ladies at}

wound into a tight little “granny knot” in back; an uncared-for face bereft @ 1.
makeup with the exception of lipstick; eyeglasses, gray-framed and age-makin g
at 1h
look stemming from lack of know-how combined with a timid and erroneo

Transformation time: 3 hours. The first and most rewarding beauty step foi}

her face by creating more youthful roundness.

Next, a temporary hair rinse in a silver-slate shade was chosen to banish
Purnell’s mousy grayness and add a needed look of color vitality and gloss.
rinse is easy for her to apply herself at home, which she has done with confiden@i%

washed away.

To set her shorter, shinier hair, rollers were used all over the head except f
the short side and nape hair, which was curled forward and held on clips. A mil
setting lotion to firm the set, followed by the lightest application of hair spra_
after her comb-out, holds Mrs. Purnell’s arrangement from one shampoo to tl
next with only occasional pinning up of ends through the week. i
Wake up with makeup. Mrs. Purnell was thrilled to discover that her washet
out appearance need not be synonymous with middle CONTINUED ON PAGE ,

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 46

age, any more than her gray hair had to be as-
sociated with a “granny” look. It was not a
matter of trying to restore Jost youth (futile
pursuit) but learning how to keep current
with pretty, appropriate touches that did the
trick.

By avoiding too bright or too dark
makeup colors, which are harsh on mature
complexions, and dipping into the flattering
pastel and rosy tones, we were easily able to
show Mrs. Purnell how to bring her features
into fresh and pretty focus.

Ordinarily we would have prescribed a
colorless moisturizing lotion to use evenly and
lightly over her face and neck. These prepara-
tions protect and soften skin which has be-
come dry, and if used daily soon bring about a
long-lasting and enviable dewy freshness. But
Mrs. Purnell’s skin is on the oily side (which
is unusual for someone her age), so a moisture
base wasn’t necessary. A creamy pink-beige
makeup was used to heighten Mrs. Purnell’s
fading skin tone. When blended sparingly,
such makeups are not discernible as ““make-
up” but successfully provide a youthful and
seemingly natural complexion glow. Follow-
ing came the barest hint of rosy-pink rouge,
blended into near-nothingness, and further
softened with an all-over dusting of clear beige
powder.

Mrs. Purnell’s shaggy eyebrows were
plucked from underneath to create a prettier
center arch and give a clean, well-defined
appearance. Brown eyebrow pencil, sketched
on lightly and ending in a slight upward curve
at the outer corners, gives added lift. Her pale
eyelashes responded luxuriously to a rich
brown mascara, and a soft, French-blue eye
shadow, smoothed on upper eyelids, empha-
sized the size and color of her eyes. Pink-
cherry lipstick, far more flattering than the
dark red she had been wearing, completes her
makeup—to the tune of compliments wher-
ever she goes.

Final touch: clothes that compliment. Clothes
that flatter are always “in fashion.” A color
that is particularly becoming, a touch of
jewelry that brightens your eyes or makes your
skin glow, a neckline that ‘‘does something”
for the shape of your face—these are the little
notes that personalize your way of dressing
and make you seem quite special.

Naturally, any woman should keep an eye
on basic trends in fashion if she wants to keep
up to date, deferring to such obvious matters
as currently popular shoulder widths or hem
lengths. But aside from such basics, what
your clothes do for you is what counts.

For Mrs. Purnell, whose home life is coun-
trified and casual, “fashion” revolved too
one-sidedly on serviceable tailored sports
clothes with no real thought about what the
style or color did for her. By the simple
method of trying on a variety of styles in
different colors and fabrics (any woman can
do this in a store), and by studying them care-
fully, on herself, she was soon easily able to
see how one outfit could be dull and age-mak-
ing while the next could be dramatically devas-
tating! From her man-tailored shirtwaist
(before) to her softly folded chiffon (after),

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

she has learned a lot, filling in these fashion
discoveries for herself: softness in fabric can
be as flattering as softness in color; high col-
lars and scarves wound closely around the
neck are age-making; one strand of medium-
length pearls is marvelously becoming; pink
and rose tones cast a pretty glow on the skin;
black is too severe unless relieved with a
ruffle of white or some flattering color near
the throat; pleats, partial or all-around, take
much of the severity out of a simple tailored
dress or suit; shades of gray need to be liv-.
ened with accent colors: touches of corn-
flower blue, buttercup yellow or softest pink
at the throat.

One year later. Today Mrs. Purnell looks just
as young and pretty as she did when she left
our office last year. We asked her how she
maintains her youthful appearance, and sie
told us brightly: é

“To me, the greatest single difference in my
appearance is my new hairstyle. The only
time I go to a hairdresser now is to have my
hair trimmed and, twice a year, to have a
permanent. The rest of the time I do it myself.
It took lots of practice (I watched how the
operator set my hair and made mental notes),
but I feel I do a fairly good job. Every two
weeks I give myself a shampoo, adding the
slate-gray rinse the Journal recommended
And because I have a permanent I need to set|
my hair only once a week. A little hair spray
helps keep it in place.

“My entire makeup routine takes about)
fifteen to twenty minutes, a small price to pay
for the returns. Because I wasn’t sure of my:
self at first, I took one makeup lesson and ther’
went home and practiced. | don’t wear as
much during the day as I do in the evening:
but then I use foundation and powder, a bit 0}
rouge, eyebrow pencil, eye shadow and ey¢
liner for special occasions (I confess that I’m!
still not an expert here), mascara and lipstick |
Once a month I carefully pluck my eyebrows
Before going to bed, I wash my face with <¢
special soap and water, because cleansing
creams are too greasy for my complexion. _

“Now I know that browns and tans tend t¢
make me look drab. My favorite colors a
blues and greens, and now and then I wea}
pink, especially in the summer. I’m afraid |
feel a little conspicuous in red. Straight 0
slightly flared skirts, becoming necklines, sof
fabrics and attractive accessories are ‘musts.
Today when I buy clothes, I’m very critical 0
what I see in the mirror. And though I don’
wear perfume, I find that a little sachet powde
makes me feel feminine and has just t J
slightest hint of a scent.

“My contact lenses have been wonderful ;
now I wear them all day long and complete!
forget I’m wearing them!

“IT also watch my weight. When I wa
younger I was quite thin—105 pounds—but4
you get older you tend to gain. Whenever.
get above 135 pounds, which I feel is abou,
right for my height, I simply cut down on th
amount of food I eat each day. |

“Tl never go back to being ‘ole me.’
husband, my friends and I like the ‘new m
much too well. I never would have believed
before, but now I’m my own proof that ther
really is no time limit on beauty!” EN)

“Notice how much louder noise is than it was when we were kids?” . i
1a

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By CLIFFORD R. ADAMS, Ph.D., Pennsylvania State University, Department of Psychology

Among the letters
LETTERS that come to a mar-
riage counselor’s

desk are many that are written

THAT primarily to give vent to the
writer’s feelings, or ‘“‘blow off

steam,” rather than in ex-

NEVER pectation of specific ad-
vice. These quotations are

typical: “I just felt I had to tell

GE I" somebody about my troubles.” .. .
“Just writing you has made me feel
iW ILED better.”’... “I may not

send this letter, but it
helped me to write it.”

For every such letter we see, many others never get
mailed. But these unsent letters serve a useful purpose
if they relieve the writer’s tension, or help clarify the
problem. It is surprising how often the mere definition
of a problem suggests a possible solution.

Of course letter writing is an inadequate substitute
for personal counseling, particularly if difficulties are
deep-rooted and complex. But some people live in areas
where no counselor or therapist is available. Others
may feel the cost prohibitive. Some troubled individ-
uals fear that merely being seen in a counselor’s office
amounts to an announcement of serious conflict (par-
ticularly in small communities). Finally, many trivial
or temporary difficulties (they arise in every marriage)
would not warrant professional intervention 7f the ag-
grieved wife devised some means of relieving her feel-
ings withoul taking it out on her husband.

IS THERE A NORM IN SEX?

“My husband and I have a good marriage except for
our disagreements about sex. He is thirty-three, I am
thirty, and we have been married eight years. Our
problem concerns how often we should have inter-
course.

“Tf he had his way, it would be every night. It isn’t
that I am a frigid wife, for I am not. Once a week
(which is my preference) I respond readily. But what is
right for me is too little for him, and what is right for
him is too much for me.

“We seldom quarrel about anything but this. If I
give in to him when I don’t feel like it, I can’t help
feeling resentful. If I don’t give in, he is hurt, irritable
and hard to live with. I don’t know whether he is un-
reasonable or just oversexed. He says I’m unreasonable
and undersexed. What 7s normal frequency of inter-
course for married couples our age? Which of us is
wrong?”

Neither of you is wrong—or right. Nor is there any
magic norm that will answer your question. But a few
findings from our study of sexual adjustment in mar-
riage may help you and your husband understand the
problem.

First, it is important to realize that the average
husband does prefer a greater frequency of intercourse
than does the average wife. (True, there is a small pro-
portion of wives, about one in six among couples your
age, who say they have greater sex needs than do their
husbands. )

Even more important, successful compromises can
usually be worked out. In spite of the differences in
sex urge, more than half of the wives in the group
studied say that they are able to have intercourse as
often as the husband wishes it; three fourths believe
that intercourse is usually or always a matter of
mutual desire; and three fourths also believe that
their present frequency is ‘‘about right’ for both
spouses.

It is rare to find a case where a satisfactory com-
promise cannot be worked out.

MAKING MARRIAGE WORK

The next time you feel angry or bitter toward your
husband, why not try the letter-writing approach?

Describe your troubles and how you feel about them.
Don’t worry about spelling or organization. The
important thing is to express your feelings spon-
taneously. If you are hurt or angry, pour out your
emotion freely. Be nasty, self-pitying, resentful or
even vindictive if that is the way you feel. If you were
conferring with a counselor for the first time, he would
want you to ‘ventilate’ your feelings. Until this is
accomplished, it will be impossible for you to look
objectively at the problem. Now lock the document in
a safe place. The chances are that you will feel better
for having expressed yourself.

Wait three days, then read the letter. Mark out any-
thing that seems unfair or irrelevant, but add anything
else that is necessary to fill out the picture. Revise and
organize your statements as though you were going
to mail your letter to a counselor for his comments.
Try to anticipate and answer questions he might raise.
Take enough time to make sure you have included all
pertinent facts.

Next, define your problem. If you have done a good
job of explaining why and how you are troubled, you
should now be able to state with some accuracy what
your problem is. There may be two or three problems.
Be as specific as possible in outlining their nature. If
the problem is financial and is due to an actual lack of
income, that’s one thing; the only solution may be for
you to get an outside job or to help your husband earn
a salary increase. But don’t confuse poor money
management with lack of income.

The range in frequency of intercourse for couples of
twenty-five to thirty-five is great. A few have inter-
course as often as twenty to thirty times a month;
others only once a month. For the majority, the
average is two to three times a week. (And it cannot be
denied that the unusually responsive—or unrespon-
sive—wife, or the very demanding—or apathetic —
husband is the one most likely to complain about
frequency.)

Frequency of intercourse, whether high or low, is
certainly not the only measure of sexual adjustment in
marriage. This adjustment is also affected by the
wife’s responsiveness to her husband’s lovemaking and
her ability to reach climax. But the real measure of
adjustment is whether or not husband and wife can
receive and share what each wants from the relation-
ship. Some wives, even though they seldom reach
climax, still find true joy and pleasure in giving them-
selves to their husbands. Such generosity of spirit and
body, whether of husband or wife, usually keynotes a
happy marriage. '

It is much easier to be generous and to share when a
couple can talk things over freely, with mutual under-
standing and respect for each other’s feelings. The
wife who rejects her husband’s sexual advances, or the
husband who gets angry when his mate tries to explain
that her needs and feelings may sometimes differ from
his, is building a barrier of frustration and resentment.
Such a barrier can destroy that sense of oneness which
is a vital, deeply meaningful part of a successful
marriage.

Perhaps the wife who wrote us will think through
the facts and implications of these comments on her
letter. She may find it helpful to ask her husband to do
the same. Then at a time when both are calm (certainly
not irritated or frustrated about sex), they should talk
over their feelings, their needs, and what compromises
each can make toward greater oneness. If they can do
this, and will continue to apply this technique when-
ever any problem arises, they may achieve not only a
better and more healthful sexual adjustment, but also
a happier marriage.

Try to evaluate causes, not symptoms. Your husband’s
anger outbursts may result from your criticism or
nagging rather than from his hot temper. Or it may be
that you are irritable or fearful because you are not
getting enough sleep rather than because you are
emotionally unstable. The counselor looks beneath the
surface indications in diagnosing a problem. Try to
do the same.

Select and attack one problem. When you are sure that
you have defined your problems and know what is
behind them, select the one that is simplest and most
easily resolved. If possible, talk it over with your
husband and ask him to co-operate in finding a solu-
tion. But whether or not this is feasible, outline step
by step the plan that you think is most likely to work.
Think it through carefully, and give it an honest trial
for some period of time. Stay with it as long as there is
any improvement.

Tf it fails, make a second plan. Don’t forget that most
problems have been in the making for many weeks or
months. Once you have begun a plan, do your best to
make it work. But if the results are disappointing,
make a second plan (and even a third) and try it. If
you have chosen the simplest problem, the chances
are excellent that you will resolve it successfully. If
after repeated trials you fail, then you will have to
seek outside help, for you have no hope of finding a
solution to a major problem if you are unable to deal
with a minor one.

But if your plan succeeds, go on to the next problem.
And remember that some problems will solve them
selves once you put them on paper.

ASK YOURSELF:
Do We Haye a Good Marriage?

Many factors influence the success of marriage. The
personal relationship between a husband and wife, and
their willingness and ability to adjust to their differing
goals and needs, greatly affect their happiness, under-
standing and serenity. Your “‘Yes’’ and “‘No”’ answers
to the following questions should help you appraise the
quality of your marriage.

Do we:

. Manage our finances without friction?

. Save some of our income regularly?

. Agree on basic standards and values?

. Accept each other’s little quirks?

. Cultivate several common interests?

. Face problems directly when they arise?
. Discuss and compromise our differences?
. Make up quickly after an argument?

. Consider each other's feelings?

. Practice daily courtesy and kindness?

. Confide very freely in each other?

. Spend much of our spare time together?
. Exchange kisses at least once a day?

. Honestly try to please each other?

OS DMN DA RAR & WS HW

a a le
Ro moO S&S

Ideally, the happy, well-adjusted couple would
answer nearly all these questions in the affirmative
With four or more “‘No”’ answers, you should study all
negative or doubtful answers very carefully to find
some way to develop a greater sense of sharing and

partnership. If you find it easy to talk to your husband, |
his ideas and suggestions may encourage both of you |

to deepen your personal relationship.

QUESTION Do You Agree?

“We plan to become engaged at Easter and to ~

marry in June. Is this too short an engagement?”
No, not if you two have dated steadily for one year.

Foop APPROXIMATE MEASURE CALORIES Foop APPROXIMATE MEASURE CALORIES
a e
Cheese and Ice Cream , Salmon: Canned (pink) ....| 3 ounces, solids and liquid,
‘Cheese: : - me comer meremerart ons eecceme re Te 4 cea e 7 120
American, Cheddar-type..../ 1 oun nae. ed solids (5 to7
Blue-mold (or Roquefort- WAFERS Vie 2 fie UNOS) ee eee ese ees | 180
SVDO) 56s sige tl Pis ee aes 1 oun Ba 3 25 CALORIES EACH SPICE FLAVORED poe m & ww t 17 medium shrimp) 7+ 110
Cottage, not creamed ...... 2 tabl Cas. &
Cottage, creamed .......... 2 tabl me oe ee Set 34 cup) ....... as | 170
CROAT Sok sass Hoe ga se 2 tabl is, |
Parmesan, dry, grated ..... 2 tab! ib
NONE Sates. + sod wR RD 1 ound | 100
Ice Cream, plain............. 1 con |
Ice cream soda, chocolate ..... 1 larg 80
Meat, Pmidtry, Fish, Eggs | , |
Meat, cooked without bone: , ao
Beef: Pot roast or braised: meee ts se | a5

BRAND

Lean and fat

Lean only DIETARY FOR WEIGHT CONTROL

Beef: Oven roast: Cut
having relatively large
proportion of fat to lean:

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|

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60

BON ANG TACK. os bi vas oe 3 ound ceaae re
slic Sepwe eae ee ee | 00
MEMASS OUNY 5 acl o'oce’s v's = 0 ois 2 ound

slic
Cut having relatively low

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proportion of fat to lean: :

110

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Lamb: Chop (about 2%

chops to a pound, as
purchased) ;

ionn and fab, es i.
ROT OMY ccaetec ies eae sc ss
mb: Roast, leg:
Lean and fat ....

Lean only

ork: Fresh: Chop (about 3
chops to a pound, as
purchased);

Lean and fat ..54...°0.....
Lean only... r¢
Pork; Roast, loin:
Lean and fat

Lean only

Bacon, broiled or fried
oultry, cooked without bone:
| Chicken: Broiled

advantages of Metrecal.

3 ounces (1 piece, 4 by 24%
inches by % inch)

1 ounces
2%, ounces

3 ounces (1 thick or 2 thin
slices, 345 by 3 inches)

2% ounces (1 thick or 2 thin
slices, 3144 by 2% inches)..

ounces
2 ounces

8 ounces (1 thick or 2 thin
slices, 4 by 24% inches)
2%, ounces (1 thick or 2 thin
slices, 3 by 24% inches)

2 very thin alices

+ OUNCES

‘about 14 of a amall broiler)

Baa

DIETARY
ee

WEIGHT

| yas |

‘Too frequently, even the most conscientious person is frustrated by the
complexities of a reducing diet: How many calorie counts should one
remember? How should the many foods be combined to assure nu-
tritional safety, energy and appetite satisfaction? Consider, then, the

1. Metrecal offers precise control of caloric intake; no guesswork: On
the 900-calorie Metrecal diet, you may enjoy four 225-calorie meals.
Each may be an 8-ounce can of liquid or nine Metrecal Wafers, or the
two in combination. Whenever a diet of more than 900 calories is indi-

cated—1200, for example—you may still enjoy Metrecal. An 8-ounce
can of liquid and three wafers make a 300-calorie meal.

See eens

~weeeenee

FOR
ONTROL

“Apricots, raw .... A ;

~ Bananas, raw ...........

feb we

FOR

1 carrot, 54% inches by 1 inch in
diam., or 25 thin slices

14 cup, diced

¥% cup flower buds,

Wy cup Pre eee

2 large or 4 small leaves

1% cup

1 medium, 2'4 inches in diam.
(6 ounces raw)

i cup

MY cup

4 smail

VY cup :

1 medium, 2 by 24% inches
(about ' pound

¥% cup

i, cup

1 medium, 2'4 inches in diam
about + pound
3 (about 12 toa pound, ag purchased
1 medium (6 by 1% inches,
(about 1 pound

ter

BULLETIN NO. 74 U. S. DEPARTMENT

CALORIE CHART

For the person frustrated by the complexities of improvised diets:

2. Metrecal, in one product, provides all essential nutrients: These
include the requisite unsaturated fats, proteins from the several sources

to assure the protection of complete protein and, of course, the necessary

vitamins and minerals.

3. Metrecal helps prevent hunger: Appetite satisfaction can depend less
on the amount of food you eat than on the types and combinations of nu-

trients...which Metrecal provides without drugs or appetite depressants.
4. Metrecal offers proved safety and effectiveness: Extensive clinical
tests show that the Metrecal 900-calorie daily diet can result in gratify-

ing weight loss beginning in less than one week.

Remember, your physician is the best source of counsel on weight control

Metrecal™ brand dietary for weight control is a product of the Edward Dalton Company, a division of Mead Johnson & Company, Evansville 12, Indiar

i
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|
|
|
Lean and fat 3 ound ; an
slics Edward Dalton Co. eee? 3a? Asm iii< .... | 116 |
Lean only. ceoetemrbsanvees 214 oO & OrviSiOMm OF |
slicd| MEAD JOHNSON & COMPANY
| Beef: Steak, broiled: 1) eee : ‘| —
pean and fat...) iver ees. se | 3 ounc we ere ND i eee a | ney
ie 9 ee eee po: 88
Lean only...... AEG Te aa | 2 ounc é '
inch o
Beef: Hamburger patty: ) g re rant a '
Regular ground beef .. | 3 ounce patty (about 4 patties -canned ..,,........++....| 6 medium spears or % cup cut spears ar 90
. per pound of raw meat) ....,7..., ies Beans: Lima, green, |
Lean ground round 3 ounce patty (about 4 patties apned ........ My CUD Cit oda spd oo a os cess | 275
per pound of raw meat) ...7... 4 |
|\Corned beef, canned . 3 ounces (1 piece, 4 by 2% |
| | inches by % inch) ............ Wp se Pats
Corned beef hash, canned .....| 3 ounces (scant half cup) . | 144 cup, diced 12865 |
Dried beef, chipped ........ | 2 ounces (about *5 cup) | 44 cup flower stalks 20)
MORAY. 10M ssid owas tole) oe oc | 2 ounces (1 piece, 4 by 213 7 Wy cup a0
| inches by % inch) % cup, shredded ; 10
Beef and vegetable stew .....| % cup CHOCOLATE % cup 20 |
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—$—$——$—$$$

BY BET HART

What woman wouldn’t want to be in just this
position? Imagine you were. We did, and here are
the clothes we bought—a complete wardrobe.
Everything from hat to shoes, from the inside out.

All this complete wardrobe cost was $270.94.
For the clothes, $158.70. For accessories, $74.29.
For lingerie, $37.95.

What husband wouldn’t adore spending every
penny of it? You no longer need say, “I’ve got
nothing to wear.” He’ll probably say ‘*You never

looked lovelier.”’

Clear sky-blue coat has a gentle flare, will go
with fashion perfection over any skirt shape. Fora
cool spring day now, wear it over beige costume.
For a chilly summer’s evening, it’s bright enough
to wear over a light summer dress. $45.00. Coat by

Dan Barkin.

“TI would pay anything (well, almost anything) for
a dress I really loved, that my husband always
loved my wearing.’’ Melon-pink georgette chiffon
always evokes, ‘“‘How wonderful you look to-
night!’ In a fabric that’s seasonless, next winter
the dress will look every bit as heavenly at a holi-
day party. $29.95. (Dress also available in black.)

Dress by Kimie.

“We're meeting in town for lunch. After shopping
I have a theater date with my husband.” Wear a
beige suit for all through the day. At the theater
(or party) slip off the jacket and wear the dress
alone. Accent either look with a marvelous pin.
Beige acetate-and-flax costume, $25.00. Costume

by Jerry Gilden. Hat by Mr. John Sophisticates.

—

_— rp.

SH!

BY WILHELA
FASHION EDITOR

7 Ns (6 wee , >
; » See o
eee

—.

ees

PSD he ee aed

Whisk off your coat and you’re wearing a print. .. the surprise, the
bright change you’ve been wanting, at any price you like. A happy
riot of color or the black-and-white look at its best: the hood and
the stole with the flattery aptitude; gaiety no other fashion can
touch. More fashion points to look for: the new full shirt dress with
the smocking: new sleeve lengths (elbow or wrist): the print with
the jacket (multiple uses never better!): the new smashing look of
vivid green, yellow and town-brown in print combinations; acces-
sorize with spotless white gloves, patent-leather pumps and, best of
all, that celestial feminine fashion, the wide-brimmed picture hat.

Left: The hood, the smocking, the riot of color; the purple balloon
print from Dynasty, the flower print with belted-in fullness by
Anne Klein. Both are pure silk. Bright pink ballibuntl hat by Mr.
John Jr. Small letter-shape silk-shantung bag from Shangri-La.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY HORST

Top left: The pure pleasure of field flowers in a young silk with a
blowy skirt, to be worn with the brightest bag, the shortest gloves.
This dress looks forward to the first holiday weekend and to special
oceasions for months to come. By John Maillard for Lloyd Weil.

Lower left: The triangle print with a soft self sash in staccato black-
and-white silk by Herbert Sondheim. To wear now with a coat.
in a bright color, without a coat all summer. Smoky pear! choker
necklace by Lilly Dache, rough-straw hat for this or any print.

Right: The first print to wear to a luncheon or other affair in town—
in new spring green, with a jacket to add to it for versatility. A pure
surah silk with a silk-crepe top, fashion with a hundred uses and a
long and enjoyable life, by Leonard Arkin. The big green rough-

straw hat banded with green grosgrain by Hattie Carnegie,

INSIDE THE EXCITING

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The world of fashion was the world of Carmel Snow, Harper’s Bazaar editor, and in her world were
many glamorous people: Chanel, Hattie Carnegie, Lauren Bacall, Suzy Parker, Doris Duke, Noel
Coward, Balenciaga, Richard Avedon, Daisy Fellowes, Wilhela Cushman, Christian Dior, George
Gershwin, Mainbocher, Katharine Cornell, Beatrice Lillie, Gertrude Lawrence and Truman Capote.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF CARMEL SNOW

=a mae

=.*

With Mary Louise Aswell

PROLOGUE. Carmel Snow died suddenly on May 7, 1961, exactly one
week after she and I concluded a long period of collaboration on her
memoirs. She had a story that she wanted to tell. Because she operated
almost entirely by instinct, she honestly sought in her retirement to learn
the secret of her success and pass it on. Since much of her material was
tape-recorded, I have been able to reproduce it in her own words. Listen
for a deep throaty voice with a trace of a Dublin accent.—M. L. A.

an instinct for fashion, but I was born inasuburb of Dublin where

the great Maud Gonne’s dusty black dresses attracted no more
and no less attention than the plumes and laces that rode in the
viceroy’s carriage. Lord Aberdeen was the viceroy and his countess,
without knowing it, changed the course of my life. In 1886, Lady
Aberdeen organized the Irish Industries Association. This was when
Ireland was still in the grip of poverty such as America has never
known. The object of the association was to find markets for the
home-and-cottage industries that kept the country barely alive, and
Lady Aberdeen persuaded my father, Peter White, to become its
honorary secretary. In 1888 he and my mother accompanied the
Aberdeens to Chicago on an important mission: to arrange for an
Irish Village at the World’s Fair in the summer of 1893.

My father was put in charge of organizing the village and in
February of 1893 he toured Ireland with Lady Aberdeen to choose
the ‘‘colleens’’ who would represent the Irish industries. The weather
was bad and my father already had lung trouble. He caught pneu-
monia and a few weeks later he was dead.

With six small children to provide for, my mother made a mo-
mentous decision: to take over her husband’s tremendous responsi-
bility and run the Irish Village at the Chicago World’s Fair. My two
oldest brothers, Tom and Desmond, were dispatched to relatives
of my father’s while Christine and I, with the two youngest boys,
Victor and Jim, were sent to my Grandfather Mayne’s large house
““Oremorne”’ in Terenure.

In Chicago the Irish Village was a wild success. My mother lived
in a cottage on the village grounds. I never saw it, but a grandfather
clock that stands in my country home came to me from the collec-
tion of beautiful old furniture she brought with her.

When the fair closed Lord and Lady Aberdeen urged my mother
to open a shop for Irish handicrafts in Chicago. They were more
than willing to back her.

For an Irish woman, backing was also needed from her family, so

aR could be happening,” as Irish stories begin, that I was born with

_home she sailed to Dublin and a long argument with her father, a

terrifying, Jovelike figure who believed that a woman’s place was at

“home. If my mother hadn’t matched him in determination my story

would be a different one altogether. But match him she did, on every
point except one. She was not to take her children back with her to
Chicago. The girls might join her later if she made a go of the shop,
but the boys would get their education in Ireland.

When she sent for my sister and me, it was two frightened children
who traveled alone on the big boat to New York. I know that a
friend of my mother’s met us and put us on a Pullman train for
Chicago, but I know it because I’ve been told. Then Chicago at last
and our mother meeting us. We drew up before the apartment house
where she lived, got out and gaped. This was a bigger house than
we'd seen in all our lives!

With our mother’s departure for work each morning it was also
lonely. We were still too young for school, our mother thought. A
convent seemed the solution to the problem. Once more we left home,
this time for Davenport, Iowa. What I remember is reading. All of

Sunday, the one day we were allowed to read for pleasure, I would
be stuck in a book—we were still shy, different, foreign children—
but we adored the nuns and, if my mother hadn’t discovered that one
of our schoolmates was the daughter of a policeman, we might have
come out of our tight little Irish shells. Every summer she sent us
home to her family, descendants of the McGuillicuddy of the Reeks,
who would never associate with a policeman!

The time came for my sister and me to “finish” our education in
Brussels, which, compared with Paris, is like the sister of the girl
you’re in love with, but is where Irish girls went to learn French be-
cause it was cheaper. A warm, hearty friend of my mother’s met us
and made us feel almost at home until we entered the convent. Then
it was walks two by two in a long crocodile, all of us dressed in uni-
forms exactly alike. Christine, thin as a rail, was made to wear a
corset for the first time in her life. I was still too young for that tor-
ture, but I was handed a chemise to wear when I took my bath. As
soon as the sister left me alone I whipped it off, then dipped it in my
bath water when I’d finished.

For all my shyness then, modesty has never been one of my af-
flictions. Years later when I went to Paris as editor of Harper’s
Bazaar my hotel bedroom was as crowded in the mornings as a
queen’s levee. My associates remember pushing their way in while
telephones rang, messengers came and went and the door to my
bathroom stood open while I bathed so I could shout dictation or
take a phone call.

My practice in French was confined to trips to Paris under my
mother’s wing, still a very protective wing. On one of her boat trips
to Ireland she had encountered four sisters whom she had met at
the World’s Fair. They were highly successful businesswomen, the
proprietors of T. M. & J. M. Fox, one of the great custom-
dressmaking establishments in New York. My mother made such an
impression on them, they asked her to go to the Paris collection with
them, where they recognized her taste and shrewd ability. Since they
were thinking of retiring, they offered to sell their business to her.

When my sister and I graduated from the Brussels convent, our
new home was in New York, a remodeled brownstone house on West
End Avenue. Then, as my brothers began coming over from Ireland,
we moved to a large flat in the old-fashioned Navarre Apartments
on West 58th Street, with gréat high ceilings and long windows over-
looking the park. This place is

CONTINUED ON PAGE 142

UPI

Carmel’s presence at a collection gave it the glamour of a command per-
formance. Her fashion sense decreed what women wore—or wished to.

THE JOURNAL’S COMPLETE-IN-ONE-ISSUE CONDENSED NONFICTION BOOK. © 1962 BY McGRAW-HILL BOOK CO., INC. THE COMPLETE BOOK IS SOON TO BE PUBLISHED
BY McGRAW-HILL UNDER THE TITLE “THE WORLD OF CARMEL SNOW.”

SAN

ple

.
i

a summer wardrobe when combined with striped

ands into

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PHOTOGRAPHS BY LIONEL

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and » SNARE,

INSIDE EVERY TOMBOY THERE’S A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY— touch
IF THE RIGHT BOY CAN BRING HER OUT *« BYJANE HINCHMAN
If I ever get married and have a daughter, I’m going to make one thing plain to her from the sta
Whatever happens—never, never play football!
If she has six brothers, as I do, she’s bound to be tempted, but I'll bend the twig in some other al
rection. Tennis is always nice for a girl. Those little pleated skirts and lace panties are very feminin| .
Sandwiched in the middle of my six brothers, what chance did I have? At six I was a good littl
quarterback for the Peewees. By ten I was the best passer in Fairhill Heights—not counting m
big brothers, of course. Our team was composed of everyone in the Denny family old enough
toddle and any children brave enough to play with us. That year I threw ten touchdown passe |

a
en

| wasn’t that I was crazy about Chuck—he simply held the charm of the unknown. He was the first boy who didn’t talk to me about sports.”

By some unfortunate chance, my mother came to watch our last game and ae mn ad go

phen we got home she took me alone into the den.

"Mary Elizabeth,” she said, “I noticed that the boys tackled you whether you had the ball or not.
Yow that’s not the right way to play the game, is it?”

They were rushing the passer, mom,” I tried to explain.

, Instead of listening to me, she told me that I would be growing up one of these days and I must

9°

“Yarn to be gentle and feminine. Boys never ask football players for dates. “So, no more football,
‘Pewound up. “Next week I'll take you to a beauty shop and we'll see what a permanent will do for you.”
"\All it did was make me look like Medusa, causing my brothers to utter piercing cries and turn
7 stone every time I appeared. My head wouldn’t even fit in my headgear. CONTINUED ON PAGE 117

a
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put the coffee bars of Chel-

ILLUSTRATED HY EUGENE Lous

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It started with a
casual but startling re-
markthatif youwanted
to ‘‘get rid of someone,”
the Pale Horse was the
place to go.

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One of the prettiest prints you've ever seen hangs at the window—$1 a yard and crease-
resistant! Striped duck (98 cents a yard) on chair enhances a look of summer coolness.

on the curtains (98 cents a yard). To get plans for the bunk bed-on-drawers, send §}
cents to the Reference Library, Ladies’ Home Journal, Phila. 5, Pa., for Pattern No. 296

Penna. residents please add 4% salest

PHOTOGRAPHS

BY ERNEST SIL

Some

ALP Tails Pe IE Re

High-fashion damask pattern on sailcloth at 98 cents a yard covers the rattan-s@
cushions. Sailcloth on bolsters and chair is 70 cents a yard. Cool rug is made of he)

FABULOUS
FUGAL

Take the high cost

out of decorating

by using cottons

in high-fashion colors and
patterns for curtains

and slipcovers.

Ten of our cottons cost
$1—or under—a yard!

By H. T. WILLIAMS, DESIGNER

|magine the delight of new slipcovers and curtains bring-
ing summertime freshness into your home! An ex-
travagance? Not with inexpensive cotton fabrics like
these. Ranging from light shimmery voiles and satin-
smooth broadcloths to upholstery-weight cottons, they
come in a galaxy of exuberant patterns and exciting
colors to wake up winter-weary rooms.

You will find solid-color fabrics to repeat a tone from
the print of your choice, as well as patterns that can be

matched in color, like the floral curtains with the striped

® slipcover in the setting on the lower left. Most are pre-

"| shrunk, drip-dry and colorfast—as practical tocare for as

they are practical in price. Whether it’s a living room,
bedroom or dining room, a big house or a tiny apartment
that you wish to transform, there’s sure to be a ‘‘little-
money”’ curtain or slipcover fabric with just the needed
gaiety and charm to effect a change of scene for summer
or the year around.

Many of our neatly fitted slipcovers owe their trimness
toa new undercover fastener tape which prevents shifting
of the fabric cover and makes possible complicated con-

tours and exposed wood frames that until now have been

Bright field flowers, at $1 a yard on a cotton broadcloth, make a pretty “‘slipcover’ for a summer
dining table. Cover the chair pads in cotton sateen (59 cents a yard) to match one flower tone in print.

Summer dress for a bay window, bright navy flowers on sini is 98 rk a yard on “‘little-or-no-iron’
chambray. Crease-resistant sharkskin (85 cents a yard) covers the chair. Rug is wool, cool in its color

.
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|

yard) for you to quilt, voile curtains ($1.29 a yard).

Summer in the bedroom: cotton-satin slipcovers for box spring and headboard ($1.20

a yard), plaid spread ($2.75 a

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| possible only with upholstery. Except for the green-and-white-striped
jones at the right on this page all our curtains are unlined and are
made with shirred or pleated headings, using the wondrously easy and
practical pleater tape that enables you to wash your washable curtains
and then iron them absolutely flat. These aids make sewing curtains
and slipcovers so simple that if you have never made your own before
you will want to try now. For a list of booklets outlining how to make

‘them, plus shopping information, write to Miss Judy Waters, Ladies’

Home Journal, 1270 Avenue of the Americas, New York 20, New York.

ction Seal the e print ($5. 25 a vara softens a tailored modem sofa.

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eae alns are embroidered ($1.49 a yard). Vinyl-cork floor imitates wood parquet. a study. Striped café curtains ($1.29 a yard) repeat the print’s green and white.

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The chairman rubbed his head wearily. The altercation
had been going on for fully five minutes and there was
nothing that he could do about it. Absolutely nothing.
When Mr. Thompkins had finished reading his report,
the chairman had asked if there were any questions and
Mr. Robinson said that he would like to ask one. He did
so. And since then he and Mr. Thompkins had been trad-
ing verbal punches before a board of directors that was
successively amused, uncomfortable and apprehensive.
For both Mr. Thompkins and Mr. Robinson were very im-
portant men, and if an enmity developed between them
it could affect several of the men sitting at the table as
well as the corporation itself. The chairman rubbed his
head wearily. And waited.

Presently Mr. Robinson decided to indulge himself in
the pleasure of smiling contemptuously. In the split
second in which he was silent, the chairman leaned for-
ward and spoke in a voice that was pleasant, unworried
and exceedingly rapid:

“Mr. Dilworth, do you wish to add something to this
discussion?”

Mr. Dilworth had been late for the meeting. He had
come in while Mr. Thompkins was reading his report,
and had slipped quietly into the only vacant chair, the
one at the foot of the table. Only his two nearest neigh-
bors and the chairman were aware of Mr. Dilworth’s ar-
rival, so when the chairman asked him if he wished to
speak, the others turned to him in surprise, and for the
most part in relief. For it was a fact that men never quar-
reled in front of Mr. Dilworth—when they knew that
they were in front of him.

“Indeed no,” said Mr. Dilworth shaking his gray head.
“I just want to sit here and listen while these two bril-
liant production men are hammering out our new pro-
gram.”

The two brilliant production men tried not to look as
pleased as they felt, and the chairman turned to them
apologetically.

“Forgive me, gentlemen; I thought that Mr. Dilworth
was trying to claim the chair’s attention. Proceed.”

They proceeded on a high, cool, intellectual plane; the
chairman settled comfortably back in his chair, and Mr.
Dilworth’s forehead wrinkled into the frown of concen-
tration which he always wore at board meetings when he
was listening intently. CONTINUED ON PAGE 138

From Me 'To You

By MARCELENE COX

@ Mistakes! We all make them. I'll tell you some
of mine—write me seme of yours. But let’s not
be toe reasonable. |, for one, think men would
not like us that way. They find too much joy,
humor, excitement, happiness frem encounter-
ing the unpredictable in the women they love.

® One certain way to keep a man’s love is to
feed him well. Try ham patties with sour cream.
He’ll sing you a mouthful of praises. Mix 2 cups
ground ceoked ham, 14 cup soft bread crumbs,
1%4 cup chopped green onion, %.cup milk, 1
slightly beaten egg and a dash of pepper. Shape
gently into 6 patties. Heat 1 tablespoon butter in
skillet and brown patties slowly on both sides.

@ Place on a warm platter, when ready. Add to
the skillet 1 cup commercial sour cream and
heat very carefully without letting it boil. Serve
over patties. Garnish with a few chopped scal-
lion tops. Will surprise and please 2 or 4, de-
pending on hunger.

® Roast chicken is becoming almost as popular
for Easter dinner as baked ham. Cold, tart
applesauce gently flavored with curry is a ‘‘just
right’ to serve with it. So is whole-cranberry
sauce laced with finely minced celery and thin,
thin slivers of orange rind.

@ When our four children were in grade school,
they allcame home to lunch. Since | never could
see enough of them, anyway, | felt blessed with
that extra hour. Used to make it a fun time by
combining soup to their order. One of their
favorites was mushroom and celery. Still pop-
ular today. Makes a good companion to sand-
wiches of whole-wheat or pumpernickel bread.

@ And what else does soup bring to mind?
Crackers! | like the way they’re boxed now—
divided into separate packages. Why, a stale
cracker is as hard to find as a ‘‘colicky’”’ baby.
For the evening meal, a rule in our house: thin
crackers with thick soup, and thick with thin.
Seems to make a better balance for diner as
well as dinner.

@ Thorns on roses remind us that there are sev-
eral precious things to be kept from harm: a
child’s faith, a woman’s trust, a husband’s love.

@ One IQ test most housewives would fail is
that of accurately putting away the dishes in
another woman’s cupboard.

@ One of our food editors, on a recent trip to
the West Coast, tasted a new hot sandwich
called the Monte Carlo. Teenagers think highly
of it. It’s simply this: Spread 2 slices of bread
with mild mustard and put them together with
a slice of cheese and a slice of pink ham. Cut in
half. Dip in egg and milk—as for French toast,
but seasoned with Worcestershire sauce. Brown
in butter or in the electric sandwich grill.

@ Most new foods, these days, seem to be
manufactured with children in mind. One that’s
A-OK here is rice packed with a type of mac-
aroni. Meat-tasting! The Littke Women in our
house find it an exciting food.

@ For those who haven’t lost enough weight
to go into summer (when more of us will be
showing), there’s a delicious new lower-calorie
tuna. Canned in vegetable broth, it has no
added oil. Combine it with celery slices, thin,
thin slices of hard-cooked egg, and crisp green
lettuce for a salad that will fill and thrill, because
this treatment gives tuna a new look, a dif-
ferent flavor.

® If there has to be a bomb shelter, then be-
fore stocking anything else, put a Bible there.
This best seller has soothed more souls than
any other book. You will not understand it all,
but you can trust it. An archaeologist can dig
with his spade where the Bible says something
was, and find it.

@ Looking back, the strawberry season often
seems as brief as a honeymoon. Don’t you
think it might be nice to be prepared in advance
with a choice suggestion? Make up a package of
tapioca pudding. Fold a fourth of it into a pint
of washed, hulled strawberries. Layer it with
the rest of the pudding and seeded grapes in
parfait glasses.

@® A memorable aspic: 1 package lime-flavored
gelatin, 144 cups hot water, 1 cup horseradish;
especially good with cold sliced roast beef or
lamb.

@ The new bride in our neighborhood declares
she didn’t know an oven with a glass door
could be so wonderful until she baked her first
cake, named ‘‘Feather Cake.”’ She thrilled to
watch it gently rise, said she wouldn’t have
missed the preview for anything.

My grandchildren love to swing on my gate—just as
their mothers did when they were irrepressible tomboys.

Di PIETRO

@ Our own quick dilled beans: Combine 4%4 cup
wine vinegar and 4% cup water, 1 tablespoon
salt, Ye teaspoon garlic powder, 2 teaspoons
dried red sweet peppers, 4% teaspoon crushed
dill weed. Bring to a boil. Drain a 1-pound can
blue lake green beans quite dry, pack into hot
sterilized jars. Fill with dilled vinegar. Covey.
Chill 24 hours. Add a new flavor when cut up
in a salad or served on the relish tray.

@ Wonder how many of you have ever gathered
hazelnuts. | have. They grow on bushes, are
easy to get at and easy to crack. For your next
‘‘at-home-to-dinner guests” be gay with a min-
imum of effort by serving the new luscious
frozen spice cake frosted with hazelnut-butter
icing. Guests will exclaim, ‘‘Heavenly!’’

AND REMEMBER—
a. Spices that have lost freshness are unin-

teresting! So there. Out with them.

b. A littlhe mustard added to potato soup
makes it royal fare.

c. Never use fresh parsley unless it’s truly
green; it should be as green as the green out
of Ireland.

® Certainly glad that being a woman means
having a kitchen. It’s a love that lasts a life-
time. Don’t know what I’d do without mine!
How about you?

@ My children say I’m always doing things with
scrambled eggs. The latest ‘‘do’’ was to add
some diced green pepper, minced pimiento
and the remains of a small can of whole-kerne!
corn. Must make a note to try it next summer
with that one ear of corn left on the platter.

® Stew! Heartwarming, rib-sticking stew. Never
malign it! It has no season, especially if it’s the
kind made with big chunks of meat in a rich
broth with a variety of vegetables. But if the

new, tiny, clean, golden carrots are in your —

market, cook them separately and add just
before serving. If stew can be made a part of
spring, this will do it.

@ When company drops in, and you want to
make “‘just what you are having for supper’’
seem like a little more, as if you knew they were
coming, try this: Open and cook a package of
those wife savers, instant potatoes, and use
both envelopes. Then whip in 4 egg yolks, %

teaspoon grated nutmeg, 1 tablespoon instant —

onion soaked in just a little water. Add a little
seasoned pepper and some salt, and it is ready
for browning!

If you have an extra minute, put this mix-
ture into your pastry bag. Make rosettes on a
greased baking sheet. Or just fluff the potato

onto the sheet in cumulus clouds, with a silver —

spoon. Drizzle peaks with melted butter. Dust
with paprika. Bake in a hot oven, 425° F., until
just streaked with brown. Delightful!

@ April! The diamond month! When the chil- —

dren come in with ferocious appetites, put
diamonds in their eyes by setting out a jar of
crunchy peanut butter, the heel of a fresh-
baked loaf, and glasses of milk.

FOR SHOPPING INFORMATION, WRITE: MISS JUDY WATERS, LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL, 1270 AVENUE OF THE AMERICAS, NEW YORK 20, NEW YORK

act

By JEAN ANDERSON

STORY
OF THE

isappearing mea loa

Once upon a time a meat loaf went to a party: a tall
and glamorous veal ring, filled with coconut-raisin
pilaf, wearing candied-fruit kebabs and a golden
curry sauce. Beautiful it was, yet hearty enough for
a growing family. And that is why meat loaves dis-
appear. Three others due equal billing (but not in
the same act, please): a fragrant ham loaf moist and
pink under its cranberry glaze; ribbon loaf squares

served under a generous ladling of sour-cream gravy
(the kind of meal meat-and-potato lovers dream of,
since this recipe provides plenty of both); and a fes-
tive south-of-the-border beef loaf whose pepper-
iness has been tempered with dill and tomato for
north-of-the-border appetites. Modern Cinderellas,
these four fabulous meat loaves. But when they dis-
appear, it’s fact, not fairy tale!

VEAL PARTY RING

MENU I

*VEAL PARTY RING WITH CURRY SAUCE
AND RAISIN-COCONUT PILAF

MIXED GREEN SALAD

MINT SHERBET WITH
RASPBERRY MELBA SAUCE

COFFEE OR TEA

2 eggs 34 cup milk
11% cups coarse cracker crumbs
2 teaspoons salt

1g teaspoon pepper
11% tablespoons steak sauce
VY cup minced onion

lg cup minced green pepper
2% pounds ground veal shoulder
34 pound ground pork shoulder

Garnish—Fruit Kebabs on wooden or bamboo skewers (about 41%” long): red grapes, green grapes, minted
2
pineapple chunks, preserved kumquats, maraschino cherries, green minted pineapple rings, cul in wedges.

Beat the eggs and add milk, cracker crumbs, salt,
pepper, steak sauce, onion and green pepper. Mix
well and add veal and pork. Blend thoroughly and
pack into an 8-cup ring mold (the loaf will come out
of its pan better if the bottom is lined with waxed
paper). Bake in a moderately slow oven, 325° F.,
for 1 hour and 35 minutes. Place a large metal tray
under the ring mold in the oven to catch any drip.

Turn out ring on a large tray, then invert on
serving platter so that it will be right side up. Fill
center with raisin-coconut pilaf and surround with
fruit kebabs. To make them, cut fruit into bite-sized
pieces, and skewer, alternating colors. Ladle some
curry sauce over ring and bring the rest to the table
in its own bowl. Garnish platter with parsley ruffs.
Makes 8-10 servings. CONTINUED ON PAGE 136

JOHN STEWART

BY ELAINE HANNA

Easter Sunday is a special time for rejoic-
ing—and for feasting—in the home of the
Reverend Philip Clarke, pastor of New
York’s Park Avenue Methodist Church.
(For a brief account of Mr. Clarke and the
work of this “reborn” church, see page 136.)
His lovely wife, Sara, will prepare a tradi-
tional Easter meal for ten, with two-year-
old Catherine and four-year-old David
helping and hindering—to be served buffet
style from her oval mahogany table. She
plans the menu with an eye on Sunday’s
schedule so she can make some dishes the
day before. ““Time is so precious because

Sara Clarke combines a plan-ahead schedule with a

make-ahead menu for a carefree Easter-Sunday feast.

I like to go to the fellowship hour after
morning church—we don’t get back until
about one o'clock.” Still, Sara manages
to serve her festive dinner before two!
Tall, frosty glasses of tangy clam juice
and chicken consommé, seasoned with a
dash of Worcestershire sauce, pique the
appetite. There’s a succulent,
crusted ham melts in
mouth—with fluffy, butter-whipped sweet
potatoes dressed in cups, and
Philip’s favorite casserole of asparagus

Ssugar-

each slice your

orange

tips and petit peas in a creamy mushroom-
cheese sauce. Sara likes to bake golden
Charleston Rolls, reminiscent of her tra-
ditional Southern upbringing, for special
occasions such as this. For dessert: fluffy,
almond-flavored jellied fruit—as light as
air, as delicate as a soft meringue, it makes
a spectacular finale to Sara’s Easter feast.

Fresh orange juice and sweet apricot nectar happily com-
bine to make this frothy, almond-flavored molded dessert.

SUGAR-BAKED HAM

1 (12-14-lb.) ready-to-eat ham
Cloves
l4 cup lemon juice

Spiced crab apples
(garnish)
Parsley (garnish)
11% cups light brown sugar,
firmly packed

The day before serving, trim the rind and enough fat
off the ham to leave about 14”’ thickness. Score the
fat in a crisscross pattern, stud with cloves and sprin-
kle with lemon juice. Pat the sugar onto the ham,
then place on a rack in an open roasting pan and bake
in a moderate oven, 350° F., 15 minutes to the pound.
If sugar crust is getting too brown, cover with alumi-
num foil. Cool, cover lightly and refrigerate overnight.
Allow ham to come to room temperature. About 45
minutes before serving time, place on rack in roasting
pan. Cover with aluminum foil and heat in a moder-
ate oven, 350° F., for 40 minutes; uncover for the last
10-15 minutes. Arrange on platter and garnish with
spiced crab apples and sprigs of parsley. Makes 12-

15 servings. CONTINUED ON PAGE 136

Sara’s leaf-green cloth, Wedgwood plates and Easter
lilies provide a springtime setting for her sugar-baked
ham decorated with scarlet crab apples and candied cher-
ries. Fluffy sweet potatoes topped with marshmallows,
served in orange cups, add festive color to the platter.

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By LIANE WAITE

The best food in the world to come home to: a
Molasses Gingercake, full of spices and plump cur-
rants, frosted with butter cream! On page 102 you'll
find recipes for Mocha Spice Squares (serve them
with vanilla ice cream); our White Gingerbread
with a sugary crust, top and bottom; and Upside-

Down Gingerbread, wearing a crown of peaches

Through the window, what does she see? Molasses Gingercake, its fluffy frosting gay with jelly beans. She'll have a piece with milk and a pink-glazed baked ap

SOMOROFF

under a brown-sugar glaze. ... On extra-busy days
you can make delicious gingerbread, quick as a
wink, from one of the wonderful package mixes
you'll find on your dealer’s shelyes. Bake and serve
while it is still warm from the oven. Pass chilled
whipped cream flavored with nutmeg. Or top with

creamy cottage cheese or cold applesauce!

MOLASSES GINGERCAKE
1 egg, well beaten
1 cup dark molasse

214 cups sifted flour
| tsp. baking soda
114 tsp. powdered ginger 1 cup buttermilk
16 tsp. salt 4 cup melted butt
34 cup currants or or margarine
raisins
Sift dry ingredients together, add currants a
toss to coat. Add the egg, molasses and buttermi
Stir until well blended. Pour in the butter or ma
garine and mix well. Turn the batter into a greasi
and floured 9’x5’x2%4” loaf pan. Bake in a modé
ately slow oven, 325° F., for about 1 hour and
minutes. Let stand 5 minutes before turning oj
of pan. Cool, frost with Butter-Cream Frosti
and decorate, if you like. CONTINUED ON PAGE

: paerhitse tc
Creamed Chicken ’n Pancakes

Make 8 pancakes. Meanwhile, in saucepan,
cook 1 cup chopped celery in 2 tbsp. butter
till tender. Blend in 1 can Campbell’s Cream
of Chicken Soup, % to % cup
milk. Add 1 cup diced cooked
chicken, 2 tbsp. chopped pimien-
to, and % cup toasted slivered al-
monds. Heat, stirring now and
then. Serve between and over
pancakes. 4 delicious servings.

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Creamed Eggs ’n Pancakes

Make 8 pancakes. Meanwhile, in saucepan,
cook 4 slices bacon till crisp; remove and
crumble. Pour off drippings. Blend in 1 can

Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom
Soup, % to % cup milk. Add ba-
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THE PALE HORSE

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 69

‘‘Attagirl! Sock her, Lou!”

The proprietor behind the bar, whom I had
taken to be Luigi, came to intervene in a voice
that was pure Cockney London. “Nah, then,
break it up—break it up. You'll ’ave the whole
street in in a minute. You'll ‘ave the coppers
here. Stop it, I say.”

But the lank blonde had the redhead by the
hair and was tugging furiously. Luigi and the
girls’ embarrassed escorts forced them apart.
In the blonde’s fingers were large tufts of red
hair. She held them aloft gleefully, then
dropped them on the floor. “Come on, Doug,”
she said, and they left.

The redhead’s escort paid the check.

“You all right?” said Luigi to the girl who
was adjusting a head scarf. ““Lou served you
pretty bad, tearing out your hair by the roots
like that.”

“Tt didn’t hurt,” said the girl nonchalantly.
“Sorry for the row, Luigi.”

“She's a sport all right,” said Luigi approv-
ingly, watching the door close. He seized a
floor brush and swept the tufts of red hair be-
hind the counter.

“Tt must have been agony,” I said.

“I'd have hollered if it had been me,” ad-
mitted Luigi. ““But she’s a real sport, Tommy
is.

“You know her well?”

“Oh, she’s in here most evenings. Tuckerton,
that’s her name; Thomasina Tuckerton, if you
want the whole setout. Her old man left her a
fortune, and what does she go and do? Comes
to Chelsea, lives in a stummy room halfway to
Wandsworth Bridge, and mooches around
with a gang all doing the same thing. Beats me,
half of that crowd’s got money. But they seem
to get a kick out of living the way they do.
Yes—it beats me.”

I asked what the quarrel was about.

“Oh, Tommy’s got hold of the other girl’s
boyfriend. He’s not worth fighting about, be-
lieve me, but Lou’s very romantic.”

It was not my idea of romance, but I did not
say SO....

It must have been about a week later when
my eye was caught by a name in the Death
column of the Times.

TUCKERTON. On October 2nd at Fallowfield
Nursing Home, Amerley, Thomasina Ann, aged
twenty, only daughter of the late Thomas
Tuckerton, Esq., of Carrington Park, Amerley,
Surrey. Funeral private. No flowers.

No flowers for poor Tommy Tucker; and
no more “kicks” out of life in Chelsea. I felt a
sudden fleeting compassion for the Tommy
Tuckers of today. Yet after all, was I to pro-
nounce it a wasted life? Perhaps it was my life,
my quiet scholarly life, immersed in books,
shut off from the world, that was the wasted
one. Life at second hand. Be honest now, was
] getting kicks out of life? An unfamiliar and
not very welcome thought.

I turned to my correspondence. The princi-
pal item was a letter from my cousin Rhoda
Despard, asking me to do her a favor. I
grasped at this, since I was not feeling in the
mood for work this morning, and went out
into King’s Road, hailed a taxi, and was driven
to the residence of Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.

\ fe Oliver, a well-known writer of detective
stories, was prowling round her room, mutter-
ing to herself in a state apparently bordering
on insanity. Her eyes, unfocused, swept round
the walls, glanced out the window, and oc-
casionally closed in what appeared to be a
spasm of agony.

“But why,” demanded Mrs. Oliver of the
universe, “why doesn’t the idiot say at once
that he saw the cockatoo? He couldn’t have
helped seeing it! But if he does mention it, it
ruins everything. There must be a way...
there must be ——” She groaned, ran her
fingers through her short gray hair and clutched
it in a frenzied hand. Then looking at me with
suddenly focused eyes, she said, ‘“‘Hullo, Mark.
I’m going mad over this cockatoo business.”

“Something that won’t jell?” I said sympa-
thetically. “I'd better go away.”

“No, don’t. At any rate, you’re a distrac-
tion.” I accepted this doubtful compliment.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Mrs. Oliver asked

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

with vague hospitality. ““You know, Mark, I
really can’t think how anyone ever gets away
with a murder in real life. It seems to me that
the moment you’ve done a murder the whole
thing is so terribly obvious.”

“Nonsense. You’ve done lots of them.”

“Fifty-five at least,’ said Mrs. Oliver. ‘The
murder part is quite easy and simple. It’s the
covering up that’s so difficult. I mean it’s not
natural for five or six people to be on the spot
when B is murdered and all to have a motive
for killing B—unless, that is, B is absolutely ~
madly unpleasant and in that case nobody will
mind whether he’s been killed or not, and
doesn’t care in the least who’s done it.”

She seized her hair again and tugged it
violently.

“Don’ t,” I cried. “You'll have it out by the |

roots.”

Nonsense said Mrs. Oliver. a
tough. Though when I had measles at fourteen
with a very high temperature, it did come
out—all round the front. And it was six whole
months before it grew properly again. Awful
for a girl—girls mind so. I thought of it yester-
day when I was visiting Mary Delafontaine in
that nursing home. Her hair was coming out
just the way mine did.”

“T saw a girl pull out another girl’s hair by |
the roots the other night,” I said. I was con-
scious of a slight note of pride in my voice, as -
of one who has seen life.

“‘What extraordinary places have you been
going to?”

“This was in a coffee bar in Chelsea.”

“Oh, Chelsea!” said Mrs. Oliver. “Every- |
thing happens there, I believe. Beatniks and
sputniks and squares. I don’t write about them
because I’m so afraid of getting the terms
wrong. All the same, you might take me out to
a coffee bar sometime—just to widen my ex-
perience,” said Mrs. Oliver wistfully.

“Any time you say. Tonight?”

“Not tonight. ’'m too busy writing—or |
rather worrying because I can’t write. Tell me,
Mark, do you think it is possible to kill some-
one by remote control?”

“Press a button and set off a radioactive)
death ray?”
“No, no, not science fiction. I suppose” —
she paused doubtfully—*I mean black magic.” })

““Wax figures and pins in them?”

“Oh, wax figures are right out,”’ said Mrs.
Oliver scornfully. “But queer things do hap-:
pen—in Africa or the West Indies. People are:
always telling you how natives just curl up and
die. Voodoo—or juju ——”

I said that much of that was attributed now-
adays to the power of suggestion. Word is
conveyed to the victim that his death has been
decreed by the medicine man—and his sub-
conscious does the rest.

“Then you think it can happen?”

“T don’t know enough about the subject te
judge. What put it into your head? Is your ney
masterpiece to be murder by suggestion?”

““No, indeed. Good old-fashioned rat poisor
or arsenic is good enough for me. But yo
didn’t come here to talk to me about m
books.”

Rhoda Despard has got a church fete and —— §&
“Never again!’ said Mrs. Oliver. “Yor
know what happened last time? I arranged «
murder hunt, and the first thing that happenet
was a real corpse. I’ve never quite got over it!

do would be to sit ina tent and sign your ow
books—at five bob a time.”

“Well-l-l,”” said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully. le

“Tt would only be for an hour or two,” Re
said coaxingly. “After that, there'll be a cricket:
match—no, I suppose not this time of yeé
Children dancing, perhaps.”

Mrs. Oliver interrupted me with a ¥
scream. “That’s it,”’ she cried. “A cricket
Of course! He sees it from the window . .
rising up in the air . . . and it distracts him
and so he never mentions the cockatoo! Whi
a good thing you came, Mark. a

“T don’t quite see ——

“Perhaps not, but I do,”’ said Mrs. Olive
“It’s all rather complicated, and I don’t wai
to waste time explaining. Nice as it’s been
see you, what I'd really like you to do now
to go away. Now, where on earth did I putn
spectacles?”

>RIL, 1962

Dr. Corrigan walked into the D.D.1.’s room
id addressed Divisional Detective Inspector
irneaux in a chatty manner.

“I’ve done your padre for you,” he said.
“And the result?”

“Well and truly coshed. First blow probably
lled him, but whoever it was made sure.
ite a nasty business.”

“Yes,” said Furneaux. He was a sturdy man,
rk-haired and gray-eyed. He had a mislead-
zly quiet manner, but his gestures betrayed
3 French Huguenot ancestry.

“Was it robbery ?”’ asked the doctor.

“One supposes so. His pockets were turned
it and the lining of his cassock ripped.”
‘They couldn’t have hoped for much,” said
»rrigan. “‘Poor as a rat, most of these parish
iests.””

“They battered his head in—to make sure,”
used Furneaux. “One would like to know
er

“Two possible answers,” said Corrigan.
ne: it was done by a vicious-minded young
g, who likes violence for violence’s sake; or
ebody had it in for your Father Gorman.”
‘Most unlikely. He was a popular man, well
ved in the district. And robbery’s unlikely.
iless ——’

‘Unless what?” asked Corrigan. “The po-
have a clue?”

‘He did have something on him that wasn’t
ken away. It was in his shoe.”

‘Sounds like a spy story.”

‘It's much simpler than that. He had a hole
his pocket. His housekeeper admitted that

’

man isa true believer unless he desireth
‘his brother that which he desireth for
self. MOHAMMED

w and again Father Gorman would thrust a
er or a letter down the side of his shoe—to
ent it from going down into the lining of
cassock.”
‘What was on the paper?”
Furneaux took out a flimsy piece of creased
er. “Just a list of names,” he said.
Porrigan looked at it curiously.
Ormerod

Sandford
Parkinson
Hesketh-Dubois
Shaw
Harmondsworth
Tuckerton
Corrigan (?)
Delafontaine (?)
dis eyebrows rose. “I see /’m on the list!”
Do any of the names mean anything to
?” asked the inspector.
iNone of them.”
hen you won’t be able to help us much,”
neaux said.

Jurneaux did not reply directly. ““A boy
ged at Father Gorman’s about seven o’clock
Bhe evening. Said a woman was dying and
mted the priest. Father Gorman went with
i) to twenty-three Benthall Street, a house
ed by a woman named Coppins. The sick
man was a Mrs. Davis. The priest was with
for about half an hour. Mrs. Davis died
‘before the ambulance arrived.”

he next we hear of Father Gorman is at
all down-at-heel café. Father Gorman
ed for coffee. Then he asked the proprietor,
: y, fora piece of paper. This’’—he gestured
his finger—“‘is the piece of paper.”

a hen Tony brought the coffee, the priest
writing on the paper. Shortly afterward he

Anybody else in the place?”

‘jAn elderly man came in and went away

\out ordering.”

€ followed the priest?”

ould be. Tony described him as an incon-

Ous type of man. Medium height, dark

Overcoat—or could be brown. Not very

,/& and not very fair. No reason he should
@> had anything to do with it. One just

doesn’t know. We’re asking for anyone who
saw Father Gorman between a quarter to eight
and eight-fifteen to communicate with us.
Only two people so far have responded: a
woman, and a chemist who had a shop nearby.
I'll be going to see them presently.”

Corrigan nodded. He tapped the paper.
“What’s your feeling about this?”

“T think it’s important,” said Furneaux.

“The dying woman told him something and
he got these names down on paper as soon as
he could before he forgot them?”

“But suppose, for instance, these people
were being blackmailed. The dying woman was
either the blackmailer, or she knew about the
blackmail. I'd say that the general idea was
repentance, confession, and a wish to make
reparation as far as possible. Father Gorman
assumed the responsibility.”

“I wonder now,” said Corrigan, studying
the paper again. ““Why do you think there’s an
interrogation point after the last two names?”

“It could be that Father Gorman wasn’t
sure he’d remembered those two names
correctly.”

“It might have been Mulligan instead of
Corrigan,” agreed the doctor with a grin.
“That’s likely enough. But I'd say that with a
name like Delafontaine, either you’d remem-
ber it or you wouldn’t.”” He read down the list
again.

“Parkinson—lots of Parkinsons. Sandford,
not uncommon; Hesketh-Dubois—that’s a bit
of a mouthful. Can’t be many of them.”’

On a sudden impulse he leaned forward and
took the telephone directory from the desk.

“E to L. Let’s see. Hesketh, Mrs. A... . Sir
Isidore... Ah! Here we are! Hesketh-Dubois,
Lady, forty-nine, Ellesmere Square, S.W. One.
What say we just ring her up?”

“We don’t really neglect the obvious,”’ In-
spector Furneaux said. ‘“‘Lady Hesketh-Dubois
died last April.”

“Last April,” said Corrigan thoughtfully.
‘*‘Five months ago. Five months since black-
mail or whatever it was has failed to worry her.
She didn’t commit suicide, or anything like
that?”

““No. She died of a tumor on the brain.”

“So now we start again,” said Corrigan,
looking down at the list. “Do you mind if I
continue to concentrate on this?”

“Go ahead. I wish you all the luck in the
world.”

‘“Meaning I’m not likely to get anywhere if
you hayen’t! Don’t be too sure. I shall concen-
trate on Corrigan. Mr. or Mrs. or Miss Cor-
rigan—with a big interrogation mark.” .. .

“Well, really, Mr. Furneaux, I don’t see
what more I can tell you! I don’t know who
Mrs. Davis was, or where she came from. She
paid her rent regular, and she seemed a nice,
quiet, respectable person.”

“Was she... an unhappy woman, do you
think ?’’ Furneaux asked.

*“Now as to that—no, I wouldn’t say so.
Businesslike. That’s what she always seemed.
Methodical. She had a job with one of these
consumer-research associations. Going around
and asking people what soap powder they
used, or flour, and what they spend on their
weekly budget. Of course I’ve always felt
that sort of thing is snooping really—though
I should say that poor Mrs. Davis would do
the job very nicely. A pleasant manner, not
nosy, just matter-of-fact.”

“Did she ever mention relatives?”

“No. I gathered she was a widow.”

“You didn’t feel there was anything—well,
mysterious about her?”

“Well, I can’t really say that I did. Of
course, when she got ill i

“Yes, when she got ill?”’ he prompted her.

““Vexed, she was at first. It would put all her
schedule out, she said. Missing appointments
and all that. But flu’s flu, so she stopped in
bed, and made herself tea on the gas ring, and
took aspirin. I said why not have the doctor
and she said no point in it. I did a bit of cook-
ing for her when she got better. Hot soup and
toast. And a rice pudding now and again. It
got her down, of course, flu does—but not
more than what’s usual, I’d say. It’s after the
fever goes down that you get the depression—
and she got that like everyone does. She sat
there by the gas fire, I remember, and said to
me, ‘I wish one didn’t have so much time to
think. It gets me down.’”’

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Furneaux continued to look deeply atten-
tive and Mrs. Coppins warmed to her theme.

“Lent her some magazines, I did. But she
didn’t seem able to keep her mind on reading.
Said once, ‘If things aren’t all they should be,
it’s better not to know about it, don’t you
agree?’ And I said, ‘That’s right, dearie.’” And
she said, ‘I don’t know—I’ve never really been
sure. And I said that was all right, then. And
she said, ‘Everything /’ve done has always
been perfectly straightforward and above-
board. I’ve nothing to reproach myse/f with.’
And I said, ‘Of course you haven’t, dear.’
But I did just wonder in my own mind
whether in the firm that employed her there
mightn’t have been some funny business
with the accounts maybe, and she’d got wind
oOnith.

‘*Possible,”’ agreed Furneaux.

‘Anyway, she went back to work. I told her
it was too soon. And how right I was! Come
back the second evening, she did, and I could
see she’d got a high fever. Couldn’t hardly
climb the stairs. ‘You must have the doctor,’ I
says, but no, she wouldn’t. Worse and worse
she got, all that day, her eyes glassy, and her
cheeks like fire, and her breathing terrible.
And the next evening she said to me, hardly
able to get the words out, ‘A priest. I must
have a priest. And quickly—or it will be too
late.’ I sent for that Father Gorman at St.
Dominic’s. And I rang the doctor and the hos-
pital on my own account.”

“You took the priest up to her?’ Furneaux
asked.

“Yes, I did. And left them together.”

“Did either of them say anything?”

“Well now, I do call to mind now as I closed
the door I heard her say something about
wickedness. Yes, and something, too, about
a horse—horse racing, maybe. I like a half
crown on myself occasionally—but there’s
a lot of crookedness goes on in racing, so they
say.”

*“Wickedness,”’ said Furneaux. He was
struck by the word. Something rather special in
wickedness, he thought, if the priest who knew
about it was followed and clubbed to death.

The woman who had reported having seen
Father Gorman in the street that evening had
no useful information to give. She had seen
him turn out of Benthall Street and go into
Tony’s Place about ten minutes to eight. That
was all.

Mr. Osborne, the proprietor of the chem-
ist’s shop on the corner of Barton Street, had a
better contribution to make. He was a small,
middle-aged man, with a bald domed head, a
round ingenuous face, and glasses. His eyes
glinted in pleasurable excitement.

F just happens that I may be able to assist
you. It wasn’t a busy evening—nothing much
to do, the weather being unfavorable. I'd gone
to the door to look at the weather, thinking to
myself that the fog was coming up fast. Then I
saw Father Gorman coming along on the
other side of the street. A shocking thing, at-
tacking a man so well thought of as he is.
‘There’s Father Gorman,’ | said to myself. A
little way behind him there was another man.
It wouldn’t have entered my head to notice,
but quite suddenly this second man came to a
stop—quite abruptly, just when he was level
with my door. I wondered why he’d stopped—
and then I noticed that Father Gorman, a lit-
tle way ahead, was slowing down. He didn’t
quite stop. It was as though he was think-
ing of something so hard that he almost
forgot he was walking. Then he started on
again, and this other man started to walk
too—rather fast. I thought that perhaps it
was someone who knew Father Gorman
and wanted to catch him up and_ speak
to him.”

“Can you describe this man at all?’ Fur-
neaux’s voice was not confident. He was pre-
pared for the usual nondescript characteristics.
But Mr. Osborne was made of different metal
from Tony of Tony’s Place.

“Well, yes, I think so,” he said with com-
placency. ‘“‘He was five eleven to six foot, at
least, ’'d say. Sloping shoulders he had, and a
definite Adam’s apple. Grew his hair rather
long under his Homburg. A great beak of a
nose. Very noticeable. Naturally I couldn’t
say as to the color of his eyes. | saw him in
profile, as you’ll appreciate. Perhaps fifty as

to age. I’m going by the walk. A youngish
man moves quite differently.”

Furneaux made a mental survey of the dis-
tance across the street. A description such
as that given by the chemist could spring
from an unusually vivid imagination; he
had known many examples of that kind,
mostly from women. But it was possible that
here was the witness in a million: a man
who observed accurately and in detail—and
who would be quite unshakable as to what
he had seen.

His eyes rested thoughtfully on the chemist.
He asked, “Do you think you would recognize
this man if you saw him again?”

“Oh, yes.” Mr. Osborne was supremely
confident. “I never forget a face. It’s one of my
hobbies. I’ve always said that if one of these
wife murderers came into my place and bought
a nice little package of arsenic, I’d be able to
swear to him at the trial. I’ve always had my
hopes that something like that would happen
one day.”

“‘But it hasn’t happened yet?”

Mr. Osborne admitted sadly that it hadn’t.
“And not likely to now,” he added wistfully.
“Tm retiring to Bournemouth.”

“It looks a nice place you’ve got here.”

“It’s got class,” said Mr. Osborne, pride in
his voice. ““Nearly a hundred years we’ve been
established here. My grandfather and my
father before me. A good old-fashioned family
business. Not that I saw it that way as a boy.
Like many a lad, I was bitten by the stage.

Democracy is a very new thing in the
world. Our knowledge of man in society
goes back to the Neolithic age, nine thou-
sand years ago. Over that span of time
man has seen and suffered despotisms of
every conceivable variety. Democracy ap-
peared in Athens about 500 B.C., but did
not make its modern appearance until
the Puritan revolution in England in the
middle years of the seventeenth century.
It did not attain the form in which we
know it until the nineteenth century.
Compared with despotism, it is but a few
minutes old. The remarkable fact is not
that it is still opposed to despotism but
that it has survived that opposition as
vigorously as it has. GRISWOLD

Felt sure I could act. But eighteen months or
so in repertory and back I came into the busi-
ness. Took a pride in it, I did. But it’s not what
it used to be, having a chemist’s establishment.
However, I’ve a good sum put by, and I’m get-
ting a very good price, and I’ve made a down
payment on a very nice little bungalow near
Bournemouth.”

Furneaux rose. ‘Well, I wish you the best of
luck,’ he said. “And if, before you actually
leave these parts, you should catch sight of that
man oy

“Tl let you know at once, Mr. Furneaux.
You can rely on me. It will be a pleasure.”

Mark Easterbrook’s narrative

I came out of the Old Vic, my friend Hermia
Redcliffe beside me. We had been to see a per-
formance of Macbeth, and decided to go to the
Fantasie for supper. One needs really good
food and drink after the magnificent blood and
gloom of Macbeth.

Hermia was a handsome young woman of
twenty-eight. Cast in the heroic mold, she had
an almost flawless Greek profile, and a mass of
dark chestnut hair coiled on the nape of her
neck. My sister always referred to her as
‘*Mark’s girl friend” with an intonation of in-
verted commas about the term that never failed
to annoy me.

The Fantasie gave us a pleasant welcome
and showed us to a small table against the
crimson velvet wall. As we sat down, our
neighbors at the next table greeted us cheer-
fully. David Ardingly was a lecturer in history
at Oxford. He introduced his companion, a
very pretty girl with a fashionable hairdo, all
ends, bits and pieces. She had enormous blue
eyes and a mouth that was usually half open.
She was, as all David's girls were known to be,
extremely silly.

ee EOEOEOOOOOeeeeeOoO ~

LADIES’ HOME JOURN

“This is my particular pet, Poppy,” he |
plained. ““Meet Mark and Hermia. They
very serious and highbrow and you must
and live up to them. We’ve just come from.
it for Kicks. Lovely show! I bet you two ;
straight from a revival of Ibsen.”

“Macbeth at the Old Vic,” said Hermia.

“Ah, what do you think of Batterson’s p
duction?”

“T liked it,’ said Hermia. “I’ve never s¢
the banquet scene so well managed.”

**Ah, but what about the witches?”

“Awful!” said Hermia. ““They always ar

David agreed. ‘A pantomime element see
bound to creep in,” he said. “All of th
capering about and behaving like a threef
Demon King. You can’t help expecting a Ge
Fairy to appear in white with spangles to:
in a flat voice:

‘Your evil shall not triumph. In the end

It is Macbeth who will be round the beAd

W. all laughed, but David, who was qu
on the uptake, gave me a sharp glance.
“What gives with you?” he asked.

“Nothing. It was just that I was refle
only the other day about Evil and Den
Kings. Yes—and Good Fairies too.”

“Apropos what?”

“Oh, in Chelsea at a coffee bar.” ,
““How smart and up-to-date you are, a
you, Mark? All among the Chelsea set. Th
where Poppy ought to be, isn’t it, duckie?

Poppy opened her enormous eyes |
wider. “I hate Chelsea,” she protested. “I
the Fantasie much better!”

“Good for you, Poppy. Anyway, you’re
really rich enough for Chelsea. Tell us
about Macbeth, Mark, and the awful wite
I know how I'd produce the witches if I
doing a production.”

“Well, how?”

“Vd make them very ordinary. Like
witches in a country village.” |

“But there aren’t any witches nowada
said Poppy, staring at him.

“You say that because you’re a London
There’s still a witch in every village in 1
England. Old Mrs. Black, in the third cot
up the hill. Little boys are told not to ar
her, and she’s given presents of eggs all
home-baked cake now and again. Becausi
he wagged a finger impressively—“‘if you
across her, your cows will stop giving 1
your potato crop will fail, or little Johnnie
twist his ankle.”

“Yourre joking,” said Poppy, pouting

“Surely all that kind of superstition has
out completely,” said Hermia skepticall

*‘Not in the rural pockets of the land.
do you say, Mark?”

“IT think perhaps you're right,” I said sl
“Though I wouldn’t really know. I’ve
lived in the country much.”

“I don’t see how you could produce
witches as ordinary old women,” said He
reverting to David’s earlier remark. *
must have a supernatural atmosphere ¢
them, surely.”

“Oh, but take mediums. At one mo
trances, darkened rooms, knocks and_
Afterward the medium sits up, pats hei
and goes home to a meal of fish and chip:
an ordinary quite jolly woman.” |

“So your idea of the witches,” I saiv
three old Scottish crones with second si
just an ordinary trio of old women. Yj
could be impressive.”

“If you could ever get any actors to ff
that way,” said Hermia dryly.

“You have something there,” ady|
David. “Any hint of madness in the scrif
an actor is immediately determined to |
town on it! Talking of performances, wij
you think of Fielding’s Macbeth? Gre}
vision of opinion among the critics.” <|

“T thought it was terrific,” said Herm]
was interesting that Fielding played the fF
Third Murderer. Is there a preceder
that?”

“I believe so,” said David. “‘Ho
venient it must have been in those time
went on, “to be able to call up a handy!
derer whenever you wanted a little job)
Aunt Emily, so rich and so unfortul
long-lived; that awkward husband alw}

CONTINUED ON PI

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86
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 84

the way. How convenient if you could ring up
Harrods and say, ‘Please send along two good
murderers, will you?’”’

We all laughed.

‘But one can do that in a way, can’t one?”
said Poppy.

“What way, poppet?’’ asked David.

‘Well, I mean, people can do that if they
want to. Only I believe it’s very expensive.”
Poppy’s eyes were wide and ingenuous.

“What do you mean?” asked David curi-
ously.

Poppy looked confused. “Oh . . . I expect
I’ve got it mixed. I meant the Pale Horse. All
that sort of thing.”

“*A pale horse ? What kind of pale horse?”

Poppy flushed and her eyes dropped. “I’m
being stupid. It’s just something someone men-
tioned—but I must have got it all wrong.”

‘*Have some lovely Coupe Nesselrode,”’ said
David kindly. .. .

One of the oddest things in life, as we all
know, is the way that when you have heard a
thing mentioned, within twenty-four hours you
nearly always come across it again. I had an
instance of that the next morning.

My telephone rang and I answered it. A
voice said breathlessly but defiantly, “I’ve
thought about it, and I’ll come!”

I cast round wildly in my mind.
sure you’ve got the right number?”

“Of course I have. You’re Mark Easter-
brook, aren’t you?”

“Got it!” I said. “Mrs. Oliver.”

“Oh,” said the voice, surprised. **Didn’t you
know who I was? It’s about that fete of
Rhoda’s. I’ll sign books if she wants me to.”

“That’s frightfully nice of you.”

‘There won’t be parties, will there?’ asked
Mrs. Oliver apprehensively. “‘And you don’t
think they'll want me to go out to the Pink
Horse and have drinks?”

“The Pink Horse?”

“Well, the Pale Horse. There’s a pub called
that down there, isn’t there? Or perhaps I do
mean the Pink Horse? Or perhaps that’s some-
where else. I may have just imagined it. I do
imagine quite a lot of things.”

She rang off, and I was still considering this
second mention of the Pale Horse when my
telephone rang again.

This time it was Mr. Soames White, a so-
licitor who rang up to remind me that under
the will of my godmother, Lady Hesketh-
Dubois, I was entitled to choose three of her
pictures.

“The executors are arranging for the sale of
the effects of her London house. If you could
go round to Ellesmere Square in the near
future ——”

“Pl go now,” I said.

Carrying the three water colors of my choice
under my arm, I emerged from 49 Ellesmere
Square and immediately cannoned into some-
one coming up the steps to the front door. I
apologized, received apologies in return, and
was just about to hail a passing taxi when
something clicked in my mind and I turned
sharply to ask:

““Hullo—isn’t it Corrigan?”

“It is, and—yes—you’re Mark Easter-
brook!”

“Are you

Ties Corrigan and I had been friends in our
Oxford days—but it must have been fifteen
years or more since we had last met.

“Thought I knew you—but couldn’t place
you for the moment,” said Corrigan. “‘I read
your articles now and again—and enjoy them,
I may say.”

“What about you? Have you gone in for
research as you meant to do? Liver flukes,
wasn’t it?”

“What a memory! No, I went off liver flukes.
The properties of the secretions of the Man-
darian glands; that’s my present-day interest.
Connected with the spleen. Apparently serving
no purpose whatever!” He spoke with a scien-
tist’s enthusiasm.

“What’s the big idea, then?’’

“I have a theory that a deficiency in these
secretions might—I only say might—make you
a criminal.”

““And what happens to Original Sin?’

“What indeed?” said Dr. Corrigan. ‘The
parsons wouldn’t like it, would they? I haven’t

been able to interest anyone in my theory, un-
fortunately. So I’m a police surgeon, in N.W.
division. Quite interesting. One sees a lot of
criminal types. But I won’t bore you with
shop—unless you'll come and have some lunch
with me?”

“Td like to. But you were going in there.” I
nodded toward the house behind Corrigan.

“Not really,” said Corrigan. “I was just
going to find out something about the late
Lady Hesketh-Dubois if I could.”

“T daresay I can help you; she was my god-
mother.”

“Was she indeed? That’s a bit of luck.”

We settled ourselves in a little seafood res-
taurant; a caldron of steaming soup was
brought to us by a pale-faced lad in French
sailor’s trousers.

“Delicious,” I said, sampling the soup.
“Now then, Corrigan, what do you want to
know about the old lady? And incidentally,
why ?””

‘First tell me what kind of lady she was?”

I considered. “She was an old-fashioned
type,” I said. ‘Victorian. Widow of an ex-
governor of some obscure island. She was rich

THE WHEEL SONG

By ELIZABETH HENLEY

Listen, my child, to the song | sing—

It is old, it is trite, it is true:

Never go back to the one green hill,

Let it come back to you.

Little and dark, a muffin of trees,

It fades where horizons drop,

You learn as you leave how partial
a view

Of the earth you saw from the top.

Taller you travel for being there—

It is less if you return,

But it comes to you as a windy
height

Captured from boulder and fern.

There would be tears, only tears
if you found

So much as one gnarled tree

And cried, ‘It is here, it is just the
same,

The change is in me, in me!"

and liked her comfort. She had no children
but kept a couple of poodles. Very set in her
ways. What more do you want?”

““Was she ever likely to have been black-
mailed, would you say?”

**Blackmailed ?” 1 asked in lively astonish-
ment. “I can imagine nothing more unlikely.
What is this all about?”

It was then I heard for the first time of the
circumstances of Father Gorman’s murder.

I laid down my spoon and asked, “This list
of names? Have you got it?”

“Not the original. But I copied them out.”

I took the paper he produced from his
pocket and proceeded to study it.

“Parkinson? I know three Parkinsons. Ar-
thur who went into the navy. Then there’s a
Henry Parkinson in one of the ministries.
Ormerod—there’s a Major Ormerod in the
Blues. Sandford—our old rector when I was
a boy was Sandford. Harmondsworth? No.
Tuckerton’’—I paused—‘‘Tuckerton . . . not
Thomasina Tuckerton, I suppose?”’

Corrigan looked at me curiously. *
for all I know.”

*““Her death was in the paper about a week
ago.”

““That’s not much help, then.”

I continued with my reading. “Shaw. I know
a dentist called Shaw, and there’s Jerome
Shaw, Q.C. Delafontaine—I’ve heard that
name lately, but I can’t remember where. Cor-
rigan. Does that refer to you; by any chance?”

“T devoutly hope not. I’ve a feeling that it’s
unlucky to have your name on that list.”’

“Why the interest in it?”

Could be,

“Blessed if I know,” said Corrigan slowly.
“Perhaps it’s just a feeling. Or perhaps it’s
something to do with Father Gorman. I didn’t
come across him very often, but he was a fine
man, respected by everyone and loved by his
own flock. I can’t get it out of my head that he
considered this list a matter of life or death.”

‘“‘Aren’t the police getting anywhere?”

“Oh, yes, but it’s a long business. Checking
here, checking there. I thought if I could find
out a little about Lady Hesketh-Dubois a
He left the sentence unfinished. “But from
what you tell me, there doesn’t seem to be any
possible lead there.”

Neither a dope addict nor a dope smug-
gler,” I assured him. “Certainly not a secret
agent. Led far too blameless a life to have been
blackmailed. I can’t imagine what kind of list
she could possibly be on. Her jewelry she
kept at the bank, so she wouldn’t be a hope-
ful prospect for robbery.”

Corrigan told me sourly that I'd been a lot
of help. He looked at his watch, remarked
cheerfully that he was due to cut somebody
up, and we parted.

I went home thoughtful, found it impossible
to concentrate on my work, and finally, on an
impulse, rang up David Ardingly.

“David? Mark here. That girl I met with
you the other evening. Poppy. What’s her
other name?”

“Going to pinch my girl, is that it?” David
sounded highly amused. “I thought you were
going steady.”

Going steady. A repulsive term. And yet, I
thought, struck suddenly with its aptness,
how well it described my relationship with
Hermia. And why should it make me feel de-
pressed? I had always felt in the back of my
mind someday Hermia and I would marry. We
had so much in common. . . . For no con-
ceivable reason, I felt a terrible desire to
yawn. ... Our future stretched out before me.
Hermia and me going to plays of significance—
discussions of art, of music. No doubt about
it, Hermia was the perfect companion. But not
much fun, said some derisive imp, popping up
from my subconscious. I was shocked.

“Gone to sleep?” asked David.

“Of course not. To tell the truth, I found
your friend Poppy very refreshing.”

“Good word. She is—taken in small doses.
Her actual name is Pamela Stirling, and she
works in one of those arty flower places in
Mayfair. You know, three dead twigs, a tulip
with its petals pinned back and a speckled
laurel leaf. Price three guineas.”” He gave me
the address. *““Take her out and enjoy your-
self,” he said in a kindly, avuncular fashion.
“You'll find it a great relaxation. That girl
knows nothing—she’s absolutely empty-
headed. She’ll believe anything you tell her.”

I invaded the portals of Flower Studies Ltd.
with some trepidation. An overpowering smell
of gardenia nearly knocked me backward. A
number of girls, dressed in pale green sheaths
and all looking exactly like Poppy, confused
me. Finally I identified her and claimed her
attention.

“We met the other night—with David
Ardingly,” I reminded her.

“Oh, yes!” agreed Poppy warmly.

“IT wanted to ask you something.” I felt sud-
den qualms. “‘Perhaps I’d better buy some
flowers?”

Like an automaton who has had the right
button pressed, Poppy said, “We’ve some
lovely roses, fresh in today.”

“These yellow ones, perhaps?”

“Vewy vewy cheap,” said Poppy in a
honeyed persuasive voice. “Only five shillings
each.”

I swallowed and said I would have six.

“There was something I wanted to ask you,”
I reiterated as Poppy was rather clumsily
draping asparagus fern around the roses. “The
other evening you mentioned something called
the Pale Horse.”

With a violent start, Poppy dropped the
roses and the asparagus fern on the floor.
“What did you say?” she asked.

“IT was asking you about the Pale Horse.

“A pale horse? What do you mean?”

*“You mentioned it the other evening.”

“I’m sure I never did anything of the kind!
I’ve never heard of any such thing.”

“Somebody told you about it. Who was it?”

”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Poppy drew a deep breath and spoke very
fast. “I don’t in the least know what you
mean! And we’re not supposed to talk to cus-
tomers.’ She slapped paper round my choice.
“That will be thirty shillings, please.”

I went out slowly, seeing again that rather
lovely vacant face and the wide blue eyes,
There had been something showing in those
eyes. Scared, I said to myself. Scared stiff
Now why ? Why ?

“What a relief,” sighed Mrs. Oliver. “Tol
think it’s over and nothing has happened!”

It was a moment of relaxation. Rhoda’s fete
had passed off in the manner of fetes, and the
weary household had retired to the house, and
were partaking of a sketchy cold meal.

‘‘We shall take more than we did last year,”|
said Rhoda gleefully. |

“It seems very extraordinary to me,” said
Miss Macalister, the children’s Scottish nur
ery governess, “that Michael Brent shou
find the buried treasure three years in suc
cession. I’m wondering if he gets some advance:
information.”

“Lady Brookbank won the pig,” said)
Rhoda. “I don’t think she wanted it. She looked!
terribly embarrassed.”

The party consisted of my Cousin Rhoda
and her husband, Colonel Despard; Miss}
Macalister; a young woman with red hair,
suitably called Ginger; Mrs. Oliver; and the
vicar, the Rey. Caleb Dane-Calthrop, and his
wife. The vicar was a charming elderly scholar
whose principal pleasure was finding some
apposite comment from the classics.

“Very sporting of old Lugg at the King’s
Arms to send us twelve dozen beer for the
bottle stall,’ said Despard.

“King’s Arms?” I asked sharply.

“Our local, darling,” said Rhoda.

“Isn’t there another pub round here4
The .. . Pale Horse, didn’t you say?” I asked,
turning to Mrs. Oliver.

There was no such reaction here as I had
half expected. The faces turned toward
were vague and uninterested.

“The Pale Horse isn’t a pub,” said Rhoda
“‘T mean, not now.”

“It was an old inn,” said Despard. ‘Mostly
sixteenth century, I’d say. But it’s just al
ordinary house now. I always think they sho
have changed the name.”’

“Who's they?” I asked. |

“Tt belongs to Thyrza Grey,” said Rhoda. “
don’t know if you saw her today? Tall womai
with short gray hair.” i

Dies very occult,” said Despard. “Goes i
for spiritualism and trances, and magic. Ne
quite black masses, but that sort of thing.”

Ginger gave a sudden peal of laughtei
“I’m sorry,” she said apologetically. ‘I wai
just thinking of Miss Grey as Madame di
Montespan on a black velvet altar.”

“Ginger!” said Rhoda. *“*Not in front of th
vicar.”

“Sorry, Mr. Dane-Calthrop.”

“There’s a friend who lives with her,
Rhoda continued. “‘Sybil Stamfordis. She act
as medium, I believe.”

“And then there’s Bella,” said Mrs. Dang
Calthrop. “‘She’s their cook,” she explaineg
“And she’s a witch.” She spoke in a matter-ol
fact way. |

“You sound as though you believe in wit :
craft, Mrs. Dane-Calthrop,” I said.

“But of course! There’s nothing mysterio
or secretive about it. It’s a family asset the
you inherit.”

I looked at her doubtfully. She appearedil
be quite serious. ,
“Sybil helped us today by telling fortunes
said Rhoda. “She was in the green tent.” |

“She gave me a lovely fortune,” said Ginge|
“Money in my hand. A handsome dar
stranger from overseas, two husbands and s}
children. Really very generous.”

“It does all sound exciting. I’d love to
them,” said Mrs. Oliver wistfully.

“We'll take you over there tomorrow)
Colonel Despard promised. “The old ing
really worth seeing. They’ve been very clev
in making it comfortable without spoiling jj
character.”

“Pll ring up Thyrza tomorrow morning
said Rhoda.

CONTINUED ON PAGE#

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—

I t to bed with a slight
ng of deflation. The Pale Horse which had
a symbol of something
had turned out to be
eling of relaxation next day,
Sunday.
“Wy going to lunch with Mr. Venables,”
ved Rhoda after church. “You'll like
1, Mark. He’s really a most interesting man.
He bought Prior’s Court about three years ago.
And the things he’s done to it must have cost
him a fortune. He had polio and is crippled, so
he has to go about in a wheelchair. It’s very
sad for him because up to then he was a great
traveler, I believe.”

Prior’s Court was only a few miles away.
We drove there and our host came wheeling
himself along the hall to meet us.

**Nice of you all to come,” he said heartily.
*“You must be exhausted after yesterday. The
whole thing was a great success, Rhoda.”

Mr. Venables was a man of about fifty, with
a thin hawklike face and a beaked nose that
stood out from it arrogantly. He wore an open
wing collar which gave him a faintly old-
fashioned air.

“It was awfully good of you to come,”’ said
Rhoda. “After that generous check you sent
us, I didn’t really hope that you’d turn up in
person.”

“Oh, L enjoy that kind of thing. Part of Eng-
lish rural life, isn’t it? I came home clasping a
most terrible Kewpie doll and had a splendid
but unrealistic future prophesied me by our
Sybil, all dressed up in a tinsel turban.”

“Good old Sybil,” said Colonel Despard.
‘“We’re going there to tea with Thyrza this
afternoon. It’s an interesting old place.”

“The Pale Horse? Yes. I rather wish it had
been left as an inn. It seems, somehow, rather
tame to have turned it into a residence for
three old maids.”

“Oh, I never think of them like that!” cried
Rhoda. “Sybil Stamfordis, perhaps—with her
saris and her scarabs—she /s rather ridiculous.

But there’s something really awe-inspiring
about Thyrza, don’t you agree? You feel she
knows just what you’re thinking. She doesn’t
talk about having second sight—but everyone
says that she has got it.”

“Interesting thing, witchcraft,” said Ven-
ables thoughtfully. ““I remember when I was
in East Africa

He talked easily and entertainingly on the
subject. He spoke of medicine men in Africa;
of little-known cults in Borneo. He promised
that, after lunch, he would show us some West
African sorcerers’ masks.

‘“‘There’s everything in this house,”’ declared
Rhoda with a laugh.

“Oh, well’—he shrugged his shoulders—
“if you can’t go out to everything, then every-
thing must be made to come to you.”

Just for a moment there was a sudden bitter-
ness in his voice. He gave a swift glance down-
ward toward his paralyzed legs. How deeply, I
wondered, had his disability him
Had the loss of unfettered movement, of lib-
erty to explore the world, bitten deep into his
soul? Or had he managed to adapt himself to
altered circumstances with comparative equa-

affected

nimity—with a real greatness of spirit?

As though Venables had read my thoughts,
he said, ‘In one of your articles you questioned
the meaning of the term ‘greatness’; you com-
pared the different meanings attached to it in
the East and the West. But what do we all
mean nowadays, here in England, when we
use the term ‘a great man’?”

“Greatness of intellect, certainly,” I said,
‘“‘and surely moral strength as well?”

He looked at me, his eyes bright and shin-
ing. “Is there no such thing as an evil man,
then, who can be described as great?

Rhoda. ‘‘Na-

oh, lots of people

“Of course there is,” cried
poleon and Hitler and
They were all great men.”

Ginger leaned forward and ran her fingers
through her carroty mop of hair. “‘Mightn’t
they, instead, seem pathetic undersized little
figures? Strutting, posturing, feeling inade-
quate, determined to be someone, even if they
pulled the world down around them?”

“Oh, no,” said Rhoda vehemently. “They
couldn’t have produced the results they did if
they had been like that.”

“JT don’t know,” said Mrs. Oliver. “After
all, the stupidest child can set a house on fire
quite easily.”

“Come, come,” said Venables. “I really
can’t go along with this modern playing down
of evil. Evil is powerful. Sometimes more
powerful than good. It’s there. It has to be
recognized—and fought. Otherwise’—he
spread out his hands—“we go down to
darkness.” ,

The Pale Horse was set back a little way
from the village street. A walled garden could
be glimpsed behind it, which gave it a pleas-
ant Old World look.

“Not nearly sinister
plained.

enough,” I com-

W. got out of the car and went up to the
door which opened as we approached. Miss
Thyrza Grey stood on the threshold, a tall,
slightly masculine figure in a tweed coat and
skirt. She had rough gray hair springing up
from a high forehead, a large beak of a nose,
and very penetrating light blue eyes.

‘Here you are at Jast,”’ she said in a hearty
bass voice. ““Thought you'd all got lost.”

Rhoda introduced us and explained that we
had been lunching with Mr. Venables at
Prior’s Court.

‘*‘Ah!”’ said Miss Grey. “‘That explains it!
That Italian cook of his! And all the treas-
ures of the treasure house as well. But come
in—come in. We’re rather proud of our own
little place. Fifteenth century—and some of it
fourteenth.”

The hall was low and dark with a twisting
staircase leading up from it. There was a wide
fireplace and over it a framed picture.

“The old inn sign,” said Miss Grey, noting
my glance. ““Can’t see much of it in this light.
The Pale Horse.”

“’m going to clean it for you,’ said
Ginger. ““You let me have it and you’ll be
surprised.”

“Suppose you ruin it?’ said Thyrza Grey.

#
LADIES’ HOME JOURN)
a

“Of course I shan’t ruin it,” said Ging
indignantly. “It’s my job. I work for t#®
London Galleries,” she explained to me. S$}
peered at the inn sign. “A lot more wou®
come up. The horse may even have a ridej®"

I joined her to stare into the picture. T#
pale figure of a stallion gleamed against!
dark, indeterminate background.

Miss Sybil Stamfordis, who now cai
through the door to join us, was a tall, yy
lowy woman with dark, rather greasy hair#!
simpering expression and a fishlike mou
She was wearing a bright emerald-green s§)
which did nothing to enhance her appearani#‘
Her voice was faint and fluttery. “Our de®
dear horse,” she said. ‘‘We fell in love wy
that old inn sign the moment we saw it.” &

The room into which she led us was sm"
and square and had probably been the bar#’
its time. It was furnished now with chintzga]
Chippendale and was definitely a lady’s sitti?!
room, country style. There were bowls ¥*
chrysanthemums, and tea had been la®’
There were sandwiches and homemade cak}
and as we sat down an old woman came
bearing a silver teapot. She wore a plain da}
green overall, and had a witless, primitive fa'¥*

“Thank you, Bella,” said Thyrza. ie

Bella withdrew to the door, but just bef@*
she went out she raised her eyes and took
speedy glance at me. There was something
that look that startled me—though it was di®*’
cult to describe why. There was malice in
and a curious intimate knowledge.

Thyrza Grey had noticed my reacti¢
“Bella is disconcerting, isn’t she, Mr. East}
brook?” she said softly. “I daresay somec#
has told you she’s the local witch.”

Sybil Stamfordis clanked her beads. “J
sure you've heard that we all practice wit®
craft. Confess now. We’ve got quite a repu}
tion, you know.” :

Thyrza seemed amused. “Sybil here ff
great gifts.” :

Sybil sighed pleasurably. “‘I was always
tracted by the occult,” she murmured. “Ey}"

CONTINUED ON PAGE

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HrINUED FROM PAGE 88

child I realized that I had unusual powers.
iymatic w riting came to me quite naturally.
of course I was always ultrasensitive. I
sed once when taken to tea in a friend’s
se. Something awful had happened in that
| room—lI knew it! We got the explanation
. There had been a murder there—twenty-
years ago. In that very room!”
ery remarkable,” said Colonel Despard
polite distaste.
binister things have happened in this
tse,”’ said Sybil darkly. ““But we have taken
necessary steps. The earthbound spirits
been freed.”
\ kind of spiritual spring cleaning?” I
ested.
) bil looked at me rather doubtfully.
WVhat a lovely colored sari you are wear-
* said Rhoda.
bil brightened. “Yes, I got it when I was
dia. I explored yoga, you know, and all
} But I could not help feeling that it was
00 sophisticated—one must go back, |
to the beginnings, to the early primitive
frs. 1 am one of the few women who have
ted Haiti. Now there you really do touch
priginal springs of the occult. Their death
bes are wonderful. All the panoply of
1: skulls and crossbones, and the tools
gravedigger—spade, pick and hoe. The
id master is Baron Samedi, and the legba
> god he invokes, the god who ‘removes
barrier.. You send the dead forth—to
> death. Weird idea, isn’t it?”
urned my head to find Thyrza looking at
uizzically.
‘ou don’t believe any of it, do you?” she
nured. “But there are elemental truths
elemental powers. There always have
There always will be.”
don’t think I would dispute that,” I said.
vise man. Come and see my library.”
e stables and outbuildings had been re-
ituted as one large room. The whole of
jong wall was lined with books. I went
is to them and was presently exclaiming.

“You've got some very rare works here,
Miss Grey. Is this an original Ma/leus Male-
ficorum ? My word, you have some treasures.”

“It's nice to meet someone who can ap-
preciate one’s treasures.”

“There can’t be much about the practice of
witchcraft that you don’t know,” I said.
“What gave you an interest in it in the first
place?”

“Hard to say now. It’s been so long. One
looks into a thing idly—and then one gets
gripped! It’s a fascinating study. You mustn't
judge me by poor Sybil. Oh, yes, I saw you
looking superior! But you were wrong. She’s
a silly woman in a lot of ways, but she has the
power.”

“The power?”

“T don’t know what else you can call it.
There are people who can become a living
bridge between this world and a world of
strange uncanny powers. Sybil is one of them.”

“But how? In what way? For what reason?”

She swept her hand out toward the book-
shelves. “All that! So much of it nonsense!
Such grand ridiculous phraseology! But sweep
away the superstitions and the prejudices of
the times—and the core is truth! You only dress
it up to impress people.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“My dear man, why have people come
throughout the ages to the necromancer—to
the sorcerer—to the witch doctor? Only two
reasons really. There are only two things that
are wanted badly enough to risk damnation.
The love potion and the cup of poison.”

“So simple, isn’t it? Love—and death. The
love potion—to win the man you want; the
black mass—to keep your lover. A draught to
be taken at the full of the moon. Recite the
names of devils or of spirits. Draw patterns on
the floor or on the wall. All that’s window
dressing. The truth is the aphrodisiac in the
draught!”

“And death?” I asked.

“Death?” She laughed, a queer little laugh
that made me uncomfortable. ““Are you so in-
terested in death?”

“Who isn’t?” I said lightly.

“TIT wonder.” She shot me 2
searching. It took me aback. ““Death. There’s
always been a greater trade in that than in love
potions. And yet—how childish it all was in
the past! The Borgias and their famous secret
poisons. Do you know what they real/y used?
Ordinary white arsenic! Just the same as any
little wife poisoner in the back streets. But
we'ye progressed a long way beyond that
nowadays. Science has enlarged our frontiers.”

“With untraceable poisons?” My voice was
skeptical.

“Poisons! That’s childish stuff. There are
new horizons.”

glance, keen,

God has given us two hands—one to re-
ceive with and the other to give with.

BILLY GRAHAM

TEACHER'S TREASURY OF STORIES
FOR EVERY OCCASION
PRENTICE-HALL, INC

*‘Please go on. This is most interesting.”

‘The principle is well known. Medicine men
have used it in primitive communities for cen-
turies. You don’t need to kill your victim. All
you need do is—‘te// him to die. The psycholo-
gists have shown the way. The desire for
death! It’s there—in everyone. Work on that!
Work on the death wish.”

“Influence your subject to commit sui-
cide? Is that it?”

“You're still lagging behind. People who
have an unconscious wish to avoid returning
to work often develop real ailments. Not
malingering—real illnesses with symptoms,
with actual pain. It’s been a puzzle to doctors
for a long time.”

“I’m beginning to get the hang of what you
mean,” I said slowly.

“To destroy your subject, power must be
exerted on his secret unconscious self. The
death wish that exists in all of us must be
stimulated, heightened.” Her excitement was

growing. “Don’t you see? A real illness will be
induced, caused by that death-seeking self
You wish to be ill, you ish to die and
soO—you do die!”

She had 1ead up now trium-

phantly. I felt very cold. All non-

sense, of course. And yet ——
“It’s a fascinating theory, Miss Grey—quite
in line with modern thought, I'll admit. But
do you propose to stimulate this death

wish that we all possess

“That's my secret. You’ve only to think
of wireless. radar, television. Experiments in
extrasensory perception haven’t gone ahead
od, but that’s because they

haven't grasped the first simple principle. You

as people

uiSh 1t son “nt

acciden

ou could do i

can accor

once you know /ow it works, y
every time.”

“Can you do

She didn’t answer at once. Then she said
moving away, “You mustn’t ask me, Mr.
Easterbrook, to give all my _

I followed her toward the garden door.

“Why have you told me all this?”
“y

secrets away.

J 5 I asked.
had the idea that you—/nay need us.”

Nec

a you
thinks you came here. . . to find us.
She is seldom at fault.”

*“Why should I want to—‘find you,’ as you
put it?”

“That,” said Thyrza Grey softly, “I do not
know—yet.” ae

“I don’t like that woman,” said Mrs.
“T don’t like her at all.”

“You mustn’t take old Thyrza too seri-
ously,” said Despard indulgently

“]T didn*t mean her. She’s an unscrupulous
woman, with a keen eye on the main chance.
But she’s not dangerous like the other one.”

“Bella? She is a bit uncanny, I'll admit.”

“T didn’t mean her either. I meant the Sybil
have a feeling that
she could really do things—make queer things
happen. I mean she could be used—by some-
thing—just because she is so silly. I don't
suppose anyone understands what I mean,”

she finished pathetically.

Oliver as we drove off

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“I do,” said Ginger. “And I shouldn’t won-
der if you weren't right.”

“We really ought to go to one of their
séances,”’ said Rhoda wistfully. “It might be
rather fun.”

‘No, you don’t,” said Despard firmly. “I’m
not having you getting mixed up in any of
that sort of thing.”

They fell into a laughing argument. I roused
myself only when I heard Mrs. Oliver asking
about trains the next morning. “I’ve got to go
to a funeral tomorrow. So I mustn’t be late in
getting back to town.” She sighed. “I do hate
going to funerals. But Mary Delafontaine was
a very old friend—I think she’d want me to go.”

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“Of course!’ I exclaimed. ““Delafontaine—
of course.”

The others stared at me, surprised.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s only that—well, I was
wondering where I’d heard the name Dela-
fontaine lately.” I looked at Mrs. Oliver.
“You said something about visiting her—in a
nursing home.”

“Did I? Quite likely.”

“What did she die of?”

“Toxic polyneuritis—something like*that,”
Mrs. Oliver told me.

As we got out of the car, I said abruptly,
“T think I'll go for a bit of a walk.”

I went off briskly before anyone could offer
to accompany me. I wanted badly to get by
myself and sort out my ideas. What was all this
business? It had started, had it not, with that
casual but startling remark by Poppy, that if
you wanted to “get rid of someone,” the Pale
Horse was the place to go.

Following on that, there had been my meet-
ing with Jim Corrigan, and his list of
“‘names”—as connected with the death of
Father Gorman. On that list had been the
name of Hesketh-Dubois, the name of Tuck-
erton, and Delafontaine, too, vaguely familiar.
It was Mrs. Oliver who had mentioned it, in
connection with a sick friend. The sick friend
was now dead.

After that I had gone to beard Poppy in her
floral bower. And Poppy had denied vehe-
mently any knowledge of such an institution
as the Pale Horse. More significant still,
Poppy had been afraid

Today—there had been Thyrza Grey.

But surely the Pale Horse and its occupants
was one thing and that list of names some-
thing separate, quite unconnected.

No one on that list had any connection
with the little village of Much Deeping.
Unless ——

I was just coming abreast of the King’s
Arms. I pushed its door open and went inside.
The whole place had the deserted air of a pub
at this particular time of day. On a shelf by
the office window was a battered registration
book for visitors. I opened it and flicked
through the pages, noting the names.

Was it only coincidence that someone called
Sandford and someone else called. Parkinson
had stayed at the King’s Arms during the last
year? Both names were on Corrigan’s list. And
one other name—Martin Digby. If it was the
Martin Digby I knew, he was the great-
nephew of the woman I had always called
Aunt Min—Lady Hesketh-Dubois.

Suddenly I wanted very badly to talk to
someone. To Jim Corrigan. Or to David
Ardingly. Or to Hermia with her calm good
sense. I was alone with my chaotic thoughts
and I didn’t want to be alone... .

“What exciting things happen in the coun-
try!’ said Hermia lightly.

I had spent the last quarter of an hour in
telling her my story. She had listened intelli-
gently and with interest. But her response was
not at all what I had expected. The tone of
her voice was indulgent—she seemed neither
shocked nor stirred.

“One could really write a very amusing
series of articles on it all. Why don’t you try
your hand?”

“T don’t think you really understand what
I’ve been telling you, Hermia.”

“But I do, Mark! I think it’s all tremen-
dously interesting. It’s a page out of history, all
the forgotten lore of the Middle Ages.”

Ln not interested historically,” I said ir-
ritably. “I’m interested in the facts. In a list
of names on a sheet of paper. At least three of
those people are dead. What’s going to happen
or has happened to the rest?”

‘“Aren’t you letting yourself get rather car-
ried away?”

“No,” I said obstinately. “‘I don’t think so.
I think the menace is real.”

“T think your imagination is running away
with you a little, Mark. I daresay your middle-
aged pussies are quite genuine in believing it

all themselves. I'm sure they’re very nasty old
| pussies!”

“But not really sinister?”
“Really, Mark, how can they be?”
I was silent for a moment. “I want to look

| into it all, Hermia. Get to the bottom of what’s

' going on.’

“TI agree. It might be quite interesting. In
fact, really rather fun.”

“Not fun!’ I said sharply. I went on: “I
wanted to ask you if you’d help me, Hermia.”

“Help you? How?”

“Help me to investigate.”

‘*‘But Mark dear, just at present I’m most
terribly busy. There’s my article for the
Journal. And the Byzantium thing. And I’ve
promised two of my students ——” Her voice
went on reasonably—sensibly—I hardly
listened.

“T see,’ I said. ““You’ve too much already.

“That’s it.” Hermia smiled at me. Once
again I was struck by her expression of indul-
gence. Such indulgence as a mother might
show over her little son’s absorption in his
new toy.

I considered Hermia dispassionately across
the table. So handsome, so mature, so intel-
lectual, so well read! And so—how could one
put it?—so—yes, so damnably dull /

The next morning I tried to get hold of Jim
Corrigan—without success. I left a message,
however, that I’d be in between six and seven,
if he could come for a drink. He turned up all
right at about ten minutes to seven. I took
the chair opposite him and began:

“You must wonder why I wanted to get
hold of you so urgently, but something has
come up that may have a bearing on what we
were discussing the last time we met.”

“What was that—the Father Gorman
business?”

“Yes. But first, does the phrase ‘The Pale
Horse’ mean anything to you?”

“The Pale Horse. .. . The Pale Horse—no,
I don’t think so. Why?”

”

There are no real difficulties in a home
where the children hope to be like their
parents one day. WILLIAM LYON PHELPS

“Because I think it might have a connection
with that list of names you showed me. I’ve
been down in the country with friends—at a
place called Much Deeping—and they took me
to-an old pub, or what was once a pub, called
the Pale Horse.”

“Wait a bit! Much Deeping. . . . Is it any-
where near Bournemouth?”

“About fifteen miles or so.”

“I suppose you didn’t come across anyone
called Venables down there?”

“Certainly I did.”

“You did?” Corrigan sat up in some ex-
citement. “You certainly have a knack of
going places! What is he like?”

““He’s a most remarkable man. Although
he’s completely crippled by polio ——”

Corrigan threw himself back in his chair
with a look of disgust. ““That tears it! I thought
it was too good to be true.”

“I don’t understand what you mean?”

Corrigan told me, “You'll have to meet
Divisional Detective Inspector Furneaux.
He’ll be interested in what you have to say.
When Gorman was killed, Furneaux asked for
information from anyone who had seen him
in the street that night. Most of the answers
were useless, as is usual. But there was a
pharmacist, Osborne, who has a shop in those
parts. He reported having seen Gorman pass
his place that night, and he also saw a man
who followed close after him. He managed to
describe this chap pretty closely—seemed quite
sure he’d know him again. Well, a couple of
days ago Furneaux got a letter from Osborne.
He’s retired, and living in Bournemouth. He’d
been over to some local fete and he said he’d
seen the man in question there. He was at
the fete in a wheelchair. Osborne asked who
he was and was told his name was Venables.”

He looked at me questioningly. I nodded.

“Quite right,” I said. “It was Venables. He
was at the fete. But he couldn’t have been the
man who was walking along a street in Pad-
dington following Father Gorman. It’s physi-
cally impossible. Osborne made a mistake.”

“He described him very meticulously.
Height about six feet, a prominent beaked
nose and a noticeable Adam’s apple. Cor-
rect?”

“Yes. It fits Venables. But all the same ——

”

LADIES’ HOME JOURN

“IT know. Mr. Osborne isn’t necessaril
good as he thinks he is at recognizing peo)
Clearly he was misled by the coincidence ¢
chance resemblance. But what is this
Horse? Let’s have your story.”

I told him of my conversation with Thy
Grey. His reaction was immediate.

“What unutterable balderdash! A medi
the local witch, and a middle-aged cour
spinster who can send out a death ray guar
teed lethal. It’s mad, man—absolutely ma

“Yes, it’s mad,” I said heavily.

“Oh, stop agreeing with me, Mark. J
make me feel there’s something in it when *
do that.”

“Let me ask you a question. This stuff ab
everybody having a secret urge or wish
death. Is there any scientific truth in that?

Coxtzsk hesitated for a moment. Then
said, “I’m not a psychiatrist. Strictly betw
you and me, I think they go much toé
There’s something in the death wish, of co
but not nearly so much as they make «
Anyway, what does a half-baked spinster
country village know about psychology?”

“She says she knows a lot.”

“So you’ve swallowed all this, hook,
and sinker? You'll be saying next she’s
Woman with the Box.”

“What woman with a box?”

“Just one of the wild stories that turn
from time to time. Some people will swa
anything.”

“Td be willing to bet you one thing. Wi!
a fairly recent period—say a year to a *
and a half—every one of those names on»)
list has appeared on a death certificate. A
right?”

He gave me a queer look. “You’re rig!
for what it’s worth.”

“That’s the thing they all have in comme
death.” {

“Yes, but that mayn’t mean as much;
sounds, Mark,” Corrigan said. ‘““Have you
idea how many people die every day in)
British Isles? And some of those names
quite common.”

“Delafontaine,’” I said. ‘“‘Mary Dele
taine. That’s not a very common name, ii
The funeral was last Tuesday, I understa

He shot me a quick glance. ““There_
nothing fishy about her death. I can tell)
that. In fact, there’s been nothing question)
about any of the deaths; the police havel
investigating. If they were ‘accidents’ it 7
be suspicious. But the deaths are all pe
normal deaths. Pneumonia, cerebral hei
rhage, tumor on the brain, gallstones,
case of polio—nothing in the least suspicio

“Not accident,” I said. “Not poisoning,
plain illnesses leading to death. Just as Th
Grey claims.” f

“Are you really suggesting that that wo
can cause someone she’s never seen, T
away, to catch pneumonia and die of it?”

“I’m not suggesting such a thing. She’
I think it’s fantastic and Id /ike to think
impossible. But there are certain curious
tors. There’s the casual mention of a—
Horse—in connection with the removal 0
wanted persons. There is a place called
Pale Horse—and the woman who lives ¢
practically boasts that such an operati€
possible. Living in that neighbourhood
man who is recognized very positively a!
man who was seen following Father Got
on the night that he was killed—the 1
when he had been called to a dying woman)
was heard to speak of ‘great wicked!
Rather a lot of coincidences, don’t you thil

“The man couldn’t have been Vena
since according to you he’s been paral
for years.”

“Tt isn’t possible, from the medical pet
view, that that paralysis could be faked!

“Of course not. The limbs woul¢
atrophied.”

“That certainly seems to settle the ¢
tion,” I admitted. I sighed. “A pity. If
is a—I don’t know quite what to call it
organization that specializes in ‘Removi
Human,’ Venables is the kind of brain }
see running it.”’ I paused—and then said,
these people who have died—were there
ple who profited by their deaths?”

CONTINUED ON PAG

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JNTINUED FROM PAGE 98

“Lady Hesketh-Dubois, as you probably
ow, left about fifty thousand net. A niece
da nephew inherit. Nephew lives in Canada.
iece is married and lives in North of Eng-
d. Both could do with the money. Thoma-
a Tuckerton was left a very large fortune
her father. If she dies unmarried before
e age of twenty-one, it reverts to her step-
other. Stepmother seems quite a blameless
eature. Then there’s your Miss Delafon-
ine—money left to a cousin ——”

“Ah, yes. And the cousin?”

“In Kenya with her husband.”

“All splendidly absent,’ I commented.
hat about Corrigan?”

Corrigan grinned. “Corrigan is a common
me. Quite a lot of Corrigans have died—
it not to the particular advantage of anyone
particular so far as we can learn.”

“That settles it. You’re the next prospective
im. Take good care of yourself.”

“T will. And don’t think that your Witch of
ndor is going to strike me down with a
odenal ulcer, or Spanish flu!”

Mlendower Close was very, very new. It
yept around in an uneven semicircle and at
lower end the builders were still at work.
pout halfway along its length was a gate in-
ribed with the name of Everest.

Visible, bent over the garden border, plant-
z bulbs, was a rounded back which Inspec-
r Furneaux recognized without difficulty as
at of Mr. Zachariah Osborne. He opened the
ite and passed inside. Mr. Osborne rose from
3 stooping position and turned to see who
dentered his domain.

“Inspector Furneaux!” he exclaimed pleas-
lably. “I take this as an honor. I do indeed,
. I received your acknowledgment of my
er, but I never hoped to see you in person.
elcome to my little abode. Welcome to
erest. The name surprises you perhaps? I
e always been deeply interested in the
malayas. I followed every detail of the
erest expedition. Sir Edmund Hillary!
hat a man! What endurance! But come in-
le and partake, I beg of you, of some simple
Teshment.”

Leading the way, Mr. Osborne ushered
neaux into the small bungalow.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Osborne. “We will
and take our rest. Ever rest. Ha-ha! The
e of my house has a double meaing. I am
ays fond of a little joke.”

These social amenities satisfied, Mr. Os-
rne leaned forward hopefully.

“My information was of service to you?”
Furneaux softened the blow as much as
issible. ““Not as much as we hoped, I am
aid. It could not have been Mr. Venables
at you saw on that particular evening.”’
‘Mr. Osborne sat up sharply. ““Oh, but it was.
'm never mistaken about a face.”

“Tm afraid you must have been this time,”
'd Furneaux gently. ‘““You see, Mr. Venables
i victim of polio. For over three years he has
’n paralyzed from the waist down.”
“Polio!” ejaculated Mr. Osborne. “Oh
ir, dear. That does seem to settle the mat-
. And yet —— You'll excuse me, Inspector
rneaux. I hope you won’t take offense. But
it really is so? I mean you have definite
sdical evidence as to that?”

“Yes, Mr. Osborne. We have. Mr. Venables
|. patient of Sir William Dugdale of Harley
eet, a most eminent member of the medical
»fession.””

‘Of course, of course. Oh, dear, I seem to
€ fallen down badly. I was so very sure.
d to trouble you for nothing.”

urneaux leaned forward. “You may have
dered why I have come to see you today,
ing received medical evidence that the man
n by you could not have been Mr. Ven-
es.

‘Well, then, Inspector Furneaux, why did
come?”

‘Icame,” said Furneaux, “‘because the very
sitiveness of your identification impressed
. On a foggy night it seemed to me that a
re at that distance would be very insub-
intial, that it would be almost impossible to
itinguish features clearly.”

‘Up to a point, of course, you are quite
ht. Fog was setting in. But it came, if you

understand me, in patches. It cleared for a
short space every now and then. It did so at
the moment that I saw Father Gorman walk-
ing fast along the opposite pavement. That is
why I saw him and the man who followed
shortly after him so clearly. ‘That’s a striking-
looking man,’ I thought. ‘I’ve never seen Aim
about before.’ If he’d ever been into my shop
I'd have remembered him, I thought. So, you
see * Mr. Osborne broke off.

“Yes, I see,” said Furneaux thoughtfully.

“A brother,” suggested Mr. Osborne hope-
fully. “A twin brother, perhaps? Now that
would be a solution.”

“The identical-twin solution?’ Furneaux
smiled and shook his head. ‘“‘So very conyen-
ient in fiction. But in real life -

“No... no, I suppose not,’’ Mr. Osborne
said. “But possibly an ordinary brother. A
close family resemblance ——” Mr. Osborne
looked wistful.

“As far as we can ascertain”—Furneaux
spoke carefully—““Mr. Venables has not got
a brother.”

“You don’t know very much about him
really, then? About his family, I mean?”

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“No,” said Furneaux thoughtfully. ‘It
isn’t easy to find out very much about Mr.
Venables; without, that is to say, going and
asking him—and we’ve no grounds for doing
that.”

He spoke deliberately. There were ways of
finding out things without going and asking,
but he had no intention of telling Mr. Os-
borne so.

Mark Easterbrook’s narrative

I had needed Hermia. I had needed Corri-
gan. But neither of them would play. There
was no one else.

Unless ——

On an impulse I went to the telephone and
presently was speaking to Rhoda Despard.

“Ginger?” said Rhoda. “Oh, she lives in
a mews. Calgary Place. Forty-five. Wait a
minute. Ill give you her telephone number.”
She went away and returned a minute later.
“It’s Capricorn Three-five-nine-eight-seven.
Got it?”

“Yes, thanks. But I haven’t got her name. |
never heard it.”

‘““Her name? Oh, her surname, you mean.
Corrigan. Kathleen Corrigan. . . . What did
you say?”

““Nothing. Thanks, Rhoda.”

It seemed an odd coincidence. Two Corri-
gans. Perhaps it was anomen....

Ginger sat opposite me at a table in the
White Cockatoo, where we had met for a
drink. She looked refreshingly the same as she
had looked at Much Deeping—a tousled mop
of red hair, an engagingly freckled face and
alert green eyes. I liked her very much.

My story didn’t take quite so long as the
one I had told to Hermia, because Ginger was
already familiar with the Pale Horse and its
occupants. I averted my eyes from her as I
finished the tale. I didn’t want to see indulgent
amusement, or stark incredulity. The whole
thing sounded more idiotic than ever.

Ginger’s voice came briskly. ““What are you
going to do about it?”

“You think—I should do something about
it?” I asked.

“Well, of course! You can’t have an organi-
zation going about bumping people off and
not do anything.”

I could have fallen on her neck and hugged
her. Warmth spread over me. I was no longer
alone.

Presently she said musingly, ““There seem to
be one or two leads. Perhaps I can help. That
girl Poppy knows about it—she must, to say
what she did.”

“Yes, but she got frightened, and sheered off
when I tried to ask her questions.”

“That’s where I can help,” said Ginger con-
fidently. “She'd tell me things she wouldn’t tell
you. Can you arrange for us to meet? Your
friend and her and you and me? A show, or
dinner or something?” Then she looked doubt-
ful. “Or is that too expensive?”

I assured her that I could support the ex-
pense.

“As for you *”’ Ginger thought a min-
ute. “I believe,” she said slowly, “that your
best bet would be the Thomasina Tuckerton
angle.”

“But how? She’s dead.”

*‘And somebody wanted her dead, if your
ideas are correct! And arranged it with the
Pale Horse. There seem two possibilities. The
stepmother, or else the girl she had the fight
with at Luigi’s. The stepmother’s more up
your street than mine. Go and see her.”

“Tl have to have a pretext,” I said thought-
fully.

Ginger said that that would be easy.
“You're someone, you see,” she pointed out.
“A historian, and you lecture and you’ve got
letters after your name. Mrs. Tuckerton will be
tickled to death to see you.”

‘And the pretext?”

“Some feature of interest about her house?”
suggested Ginger vaguely. “There must be
some old pictures of some kind. Anyway, you
make an appointment and you arrive and you
butter her up and be charming, and then you
say you once met her daughter—her step-
daughter—and say how sad, and so on. And
then bring in, quite suddenly, a reference to
the Pale Horse. Be a little sinister if you like.”

“And then?”

“And then observe the reaction. If you
mention the Pale Horse out of the blue, and
she has a guilty conscience, I defy anyone not
to show some sign.” She added thoughtfully,
“There’s something else. Why do you think
the Grey woman told you all she did tell you?
I mean—why you in particular? I just won-
dered if there might be some kind of tie-up.”

“Tie-up with what?”

“Supposing—just supposing—Poppy knows
all about the Pale Horse in a vague kind of
way—not through personal knowledge, but
by hearing it talked about. Say she was over-
heard talking to you about it that night, and
someone ticks her off. Next day you come and
ask her questions, and she’s been scared, so
she won’t talk. But the fact that you’ve come
and asked her also gets around. Now what
would be the reason for your asking questions?
You’re not police. The /ike/y reason would be
that you’re a possible c/ient.”’

“But surely ——”’

’

Les logical. You’ve heard rumors of this
thing; you want to find out about it, for your
own purposes. Presently you appear at the
fete in Much Deeping. You are brought to the
Pale Horse—presumably because you’ve
asked to be taken there—and what happens?
Thyrza Grey goes straight into her sales talk.”

“I suppose it’s a possibility.”’ I considered.
“Do you think she can do what she claims to
do, Ginger?”

‘Personally I’d be inclined to say of course
she can’t! But odd things can happen. Es-
pecially with things like hypnotism. Telling
someone to go and take a bite out of a candle
the next afternoon at four o’clock, and they

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 80

BUTTER-CREAM FROSTING

14 cup butter About 2 tablespoons
2 cups confectioners’ cream
sugar l4 teaspoon vanilla

Cream butter until light and fluffy. Add half of
the sugar and beat until smooth. Stir in cream
and vanilla and add remaining sugar. Beat un-
til frosting is thick and smooth. Substitute
margarine for butter if you wish.

MOCHA SPICE SQUARES

14 teaspoon allspice
1 tablespoon instant

2 cups sifted flour
2 teaspoons baking

powder coffee
V4 teaspoon baking 1-2 squares semisweet
soda chocolate, grated

34 cup hot water

14 cup shortening

Ye cup dark molasses
2 eggs

1% teaspoon salt
V4 cup sugar

1% teaspoons ginger
4 teaspoon cloves

16 teaspoon cinnamon
Sift dry ingredients together and add grated
chocolate. Pour hot water over shortening and
stir until shortening melts. Mix in themolasses.
Then add eggs and blend thoroughly. Quickly
stir in the dry ingredients and pour into a
waxed-paper-lined pan, 7”x11”x114”. Bake in
a moderate oven, 350° F., for about 45 min-
utes. Allow to cool a few minutes before turn-
ing out of pan. Serve warm. Makes 6 to 8
servings.

WHITE GINGERBREAD

14 teaspoon salt
'4 teaspoon baking

2 cups sifted flour
| cup sugar

'4 cup butter soda

or margarine '4 teaspoon baking
| teaspoon cinnamon powder
'4 teaspoon ginger l egg

\4 teaspoon mace V4 cup buttermilk
Rub flour, sugar and butter or margarine to-
gether until mixture resembles cornmeal. Add
'4 teaspoon cinnamon and toss. Set aside 1
cup of this crumbly mixture. To the remaining
add the other 14 teaspoon cinnamon, ginger,
mace, salt, soda and baking powder. Toss;
then add egg and buttermilk. Beat smooth.
Sprinkle 4% cup of the reserved “crumbly”
mixture in the bottom of an 8”x8”x2” pan and
spread the batter over it. Sprinkle the re-
maining flour ‘‘crumbs” evenly over the top.
Bake in a moderate oven, 350° F., for 35 to
40 minutes.

UPSIDE-DOWN PEACH GINGERBREAD

2 (1-/b.) cans sliced
cling peaches
3 tablespoons softened soda
butter or margarine 1% teaspoons ginger
Ys cup firmly packed 14 teaspoon allspice
1

214 cups sifted flour
114 teaspoons baking

brown sugar { teaspoon cloves
1 tablespoon dark 4 teaspoon nutmeg
corn syrup 4 teaspoon salt
cup buttermilk

6 walnut halves

1 cup dark molasses beaten

3 Cup she rtening

1 egg,

Drain the pe ch slices and
g. Spread the

rine evenly in the
llet. (Be

pat dry v
1 butter or m
bottom of a h

ith paper

softene

ire it has ne< rool

1eN 1° COrMm syrup

to cover tl 9ottom ci
motasses 1a Shortenins ntil sl
melts, th et aside to cor rhtly. Sift dry
Ingres gether. Ad

to the molasses mi» and |

stir in dr ngredients

Bake in « j

about | hour or until d

minutes before turnin

servings.

do it without having any idea why. About
Thyrza—I don’t think it’s true, but I’m ter-
ribly afraid it might be!”

“Yes,” I said somberly,
very well.”

The meeting with Poppy was arranged fairly
easily. David was free three nights ahead, we
settled on a musical show, and he arrived with
Poppy in tow. We went to the Fantasie for
supper and Ginger and Poppy, after a pro-
longed retirement to powder their noses, re-
appeared on excellent terms with each other.
No controversial subjects were raised during
the party, on Ginger’s instructions. We finally
parted and I drove Ginger home.

Three days later she rang me up. “I’ve got
something for you,”’ she said. “A name and
address. Write it down.”

I took out my notebook. “Go ahead.”

“Bradley is the name, and the address is
Seventy-eight Municipal Square Buildings,
Birmingham.”

“What is all this?”

“T’ve been working on Poppy ina big way.
We lunched together, and I talked a bit about
my love life—and various obstacles: married
man with impossible wife—Catholic, wouldn’t
divorce him—made his life hell. And how she
was an invalid, always in pain, but not likely
to die for years. Really much better for her
if she could die. Said I’'d a good mind to try
the Pale Horse, but I didn’t really know how
to set about it—and would it be terribly expen-
sive? And Poppy said yes, she thought it
would. She’d heard they charged the earth.
Perhaps, I said, they’d take something on ac-
count? But how did one set about it? And
then Poppy came across with that name and
address. You had to go to him first, she said,
to settle the business side.”

I said incredulously, “She told you this
quite openly? She didn’t seem . . . scared?”

Ginger said impatiently, ““You don’t under-
stand. Telling things to another girl doesn’t
count! And after all, Mark, if what we think
is true the business has to be more or less ad-
vertised, hasn’t it? I mean they must want new
‘clients’ all the time.”

‘We're mad to believe anything of the kind.”

“All right. We’re mad. Are you. going to
Birmingham to see Mr. Bradley?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to see Mr. Brad-
ley. If he exists.”

Municipal Square Buildings was an enor-
mous honeycomb of offices. Seventy-eight was
on the third floor. On the ground-glass door
was neatly printed in black: C. R. BRADLEY,
Commission Agent. And below, in smaller
letters: Please enter.

I entered. The office had a desk, one or two
comfortable chairs, a telephone, and Mr.
Bradley sitting behind the desk.

“Just shut the door, will you?’’ he said
pleasantly. “And sit down. Cigarette? No?
Well now, what can I do for you?”

I looked at him. I hadn’t the least idea what
to say.

It was, I think, sheer desperation that led
me to attack with the phrase I did.

““How much?” I said.

It startled him a little, but he did not as-
sume, as I would have assumed in his place,
that someone not quite right in the head had
come into his office.

“Well, well, well,’ he said. “You don’t
waste much time, do you?” He shook his head
gently in a slightly reproving manner. ““That’s
not the way to go about things. We must pro-
ceed in the proper manner.”

“that explains it

As you like. What’s the proper manner?”

“We haven’t introduced ourselves yet,
have we? I don’t know your name.”

“At the moment,” I said, “I don’t really
think I feel inclined to tell it to you.”

‘Cautious,’ he said rather admiringly.
Now who sent you to me? Who’s our mutual
riend?”

Again I can’t tell you. A friend of mine has

a 1d who knows a friend of yours.”
Bradley nodded his head. “That's the
way a lot of my clients come,” he said. “Some
| of the problems are rather . . . delicate. You
know I’m a turf commission agent,” he said.
vu’re interested, perhaps, in. . yrses?”’
ised for a moment and | isked
\ly—almost too casually—*A ticu-

‘se you had in mind?”

I shrugged my shoulders and burned my
boats. “‘A pale horse.”

“Ah, very good, excellent. You yourself, if
I may say so, seem to be rather a dark horse.
Ha-ha! You mustn’t be nervous. Everything I
recommend is perfectly legal and aboveboard.
It’s just a question of a bet. A man can bet on
anything he pleases, whether it will rain to-
morrow, whether the Russians can send a man
to the moon, or whether your wife’s going to
have twins. You can bet whether Mr. B. will
die before Christmas, or whether Mrs. C.
will live to be a hundred. You back your judg-
ment on your intuition or whatever you like
to call it. It’s as simple as that.”

I said slowly, “I don’t really understand this
business of the Pale Horse.”

“Frankly, I don’t understand it myself. But
it gets results. It gets results in the most mar-
velous way. Do you know the place at all?”

I made a quick decision. It would be unwise
to lie. ‘“‘I—well—yes; I was with some friends.
They took me there.”

“Charming old pub. Full of historical in-
terest. And they’ve done wonders in restoring
it. You met my friend, Miss Grey?”

“The things she claims! Surely quite—
well—impossible?”’

“Exactly. The things she claims to be able
to know and do are impossible! Everybody
would say so. In a court of law, for in-
stance *’ The black beady eyes were bor-
ing into mine. Mr. Bradley repeated the words
with designed emphasis. “In a court of law,
for instance—the whole thing would be ridi-
culed! Murder by remote control isn’t murder
in the eyes of the law. It’s just nonsense. That’s
the whole beauty of the thing—as you'll appre-
ciate if you think for a moment.”

I understood that I was being reassured. If
I were to hire a gangster to commit murder
with cosh or a knife, I was committed with
him—an accomplice before the fact—I had
conspired with him. But if I commissioned
Thyrza Grey to use her black arts—those black
arts were not admissible.

All my natural skepticism rose up in protest.
I burst out heatedly, “But it’s fantastic. I
don’t believe it. It’s impossible.”

“IT agree with you. I really do. In this age,
one really can’t credit that someone can send
out thought waves, either oneself or through
a medium, sitting in a cottage in England and
cause someone to sicken and die of a con-
venient disease out in Capri. What I do be-
lieve, and believe without a doubt, is this’ —
he leaned forward, wagging a forefinger im-
pressively—“‘Thyrza Grey does know—be-
forehand—when someone is going to die. It’s
a gift. And she has it.”

He leaned back, studying me. I waited.

““Let’s assume a hypothetical case. Some-
one, yourself or another, would like very much
to know when—let’s say—Great-Aunt Eliza
is going to die. Will there be, shall we say, a
useful sum of money coming in by next Novem-
ber? If you knew that, definitely, you might
take up some valuable option. Death is such a
chancy matter. Dear old Eliza might live,
pepped up by doctors, for another ten years.
You'd be delighted, of course, you’re fond of
the dear old girl, but how useful it would be to
know.”

He paused and then leaned forward.

““Now that’s where J come in. Naturally you
wouldn’t want to bet on the old girl’s passing
out. That would be repulsive to your finer feel-
ings. So you bet me a certain sum that Aunt
Eliza will be hale and hearty still next Christ-
mas, I bet you that she won’t.”

The beady eyes were on me, watching.

“Nothing against that, is there? Simple. We
have an argument on the subject. I say Aunt
E. is lined up for death, you say she isn’t. We
draw up a contract and sign it. I give you a
date. I say that a fortnight either way from
that date Auntie E.’s funeral service will be
read. You say it won’t. If you’re right, J pay
you. If you’re wrong, you pay me.”

I spoke-——my voice was hoarse. I was acting
the part with some confidence. ‘“What terms?”

“That depends. Roughly it depends on the
amount there is at stake. In some cases it de-
pends on the funds available to the client. The
odds, however, work out usually at five hun-
dred to one.”

“Five hundred to one? That’s pretty steep.”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

“My wager is pretty steep. If Aunt Eliza
were pretty well booked for the tomb, yo
know it already, and you wouldn’t come
me. To prophesy somebody’s death to wit!
two weeks means pretty long odds.”

“Supposing you lose?”

“That’s just too bad. I pay up.”

“And if I lose, I pay up. Supposing I don’t?

Mr. Bradley half closed his eyes. “
shouldn’t advise that,”’ he said softly.

Despite the soft tone, I felt a faint shiver
pass over me. He had uttered no direc
menace. But the menace was there.

“I—I must think it over.”

Mr. Bradley was once more his pleasan
and urbane self. “Certainly think it over
Never rush into anything. Take your time
No hurry in the world. Take your time.”

I went out with those words echoing in m)
ears: ““Take your time.” :
On my return from my incredible intervigy
with Mr. Bradley, Ginger and I put our head:
together. It was less incredible to her than ij
was to me. It afforded her, indeed, a disting

satisfaction.

“Tt puts an end to whether we’re imaginin
things or not,” she pointed out. ““Now wi
know that an organization does exist for gel
ting unwanted people out of the way.”

“If you’re so convinced, then why talk t
Mrs. Tuckerton?”

“Extra check,” said Ginger. “We knoy
what Thyrza Grey says she can do. We knot
how the financial side is worked. We want t
know more about the client angle.”

“And suppose Mrs. Tuckerton shows ni
signs of having been a client?”

“Then we'll have to investigate elsewhere,

Ginger had promised to supply me with |
recent book on Nash architecture, but it
not arrived in time, so I was here somewha}
inadequately briefed.

I rang the bell, and a rather seedy-looki
man in an alpaca coat opened it. |

“Mr. Easterbrook?” he said. “Mrs. Tucker
ton’s expecting you.”

He showed me into an elaborately furnishe
drawing room. The room made a disagreeak
impression on me. Everything in it was exper
sive, but chosen without taste. There were on
or two good pictures, and a great many ba
ones. There was a great deal of yellow bre
cade. Further cogitations were interrupted b
the arrival of Mrs. Tuckerton herself.

“Mr. Easterbrook?” She was clearly di
lighted by my visit. She even gushed a little
“I’m so pleased to meet you. Fancy your b
ing interested in this house. Of course I kne
it was built by John Nash—my husband tol
me so—but I never realized that it would &
interesting to a person like you!”

“Well, you see, Mrs. Tuckerton, it’s ne
quite his usual style, and that makes it inte)
esting to—er ——” f

She saved me the trouble of continuin
“I’m afraid I’m terribly stupid about that so
of thing—architecture, I mean, and archaee
ogy and all that. But you mustn’t mind n
ignorance.”

I didn’t mind at all. I preferred it.

|
|

She showed me round, chattering viv
ciously most of the time, and thus relieving 1
of uttering any architectural judgments.

It was lucky, she said, that ’'d come no!
The house was up for sale—“‘It’s too big f
me since my husband’s death.” |

I asked her if she was going to remain in th
neighborhood. a

“Really, I’m not quite sure. I shall travel
little first. Get into the sunshine. I hate th}
miserable climate. Actually I think I shall y
ter in Egypt. Such a wonderful country, b
expect you know all about it.” a

Presently, the tour completed, we returné
to the drawing room and Mrs. Tuckertc
rang for tea. It was brought in by the seed
looking manservant. Mrs. Tuckerton sigh
as he left the room. |

“Servants are really impossible nowada is
she said. “I think it’s absurd myself, to pi
these high wages.” {

Yes, I thought, mean. The pale eyes, tl
tight mouth—avarice was there.

There was no difficulty in getting MI
Tuckerton to talk. She liked talking. She like

CONTINUED ON PAGE 1

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in particular, talking about herself. Presently,
by listening with close attention, and uttering
an encouraging word now and then, [ knew
a good deal about Mrs. Tuckerton.

I knew that she had married Thomas Tuck-
erton, a widower, five years ago. She had been
“much, much younger than he was.”’ She had
met him at a big seaside hotel where she had
been a bridge hostess.

“Poor Thomas, he was so lonely. His first
wife had died some years back and he missed
her very much.”

Mrs. Tuckerton’s picture of herself con-
tinued. A gracious, kindly woman taking pity
on this aging, lonely man. His deteriorating
health and her devotion . . . his death.

Ginger had looked up the terms of his will
for me at Somerset House. Bequests to old
servants, to a couple of godchildren, and then
provision for his wife—sufficient, but not un-
duly generous. A sum in trust, the income to
be enjoyed during her lifetime. The residue of
his estate, which ran into a sum of six figures,
to his daughter Thomasina Ann, to be hers
absolutely at the age of twenty-one, or on
her marriage. If she died before twenty-one,
unmarried, the money was to go to her step-
mother. There had been, it seemed, no other
members of the family.

The will, perhaps, had been a disappoint-
ment to Mrs. Tuckerton. She had looked for-
ward to expensive travel, to luxury cruises, to
clothes, jewels—or possibly to the sheer pleas-
ure of money itself, mounting up in the bank.

Instead the girl was to have all that money!

Unless —— Could I really believe that the
blond-haired meretricious creature talking
platitudes so glibly was capable of seeking out
the Pale Horse, and arranging for a young
girl to die?

I said, rather abruptly, “I believe, you
know, I met your daughter—stepdaughter—
once?”

“Thomasina? Did you?” She sighed. “These
girls nowadays. So difficult. One doesn’t seem
to have any control over them. She never
listened to anything / said.’ She sighed again.
“She was nearly grown up, you know, when

we married. A stepmother ——”
“Always a difficult position,” I said sym-
pathetically.

“Poor Thomasina,” said Mrs. Tuckerton.
She adjusted a stray lock of blond hair. Then
she looked at me. “Oh, but perhaps you don’t
know. She died about a month ago. En-
cephalitis—very sudden. It’s a disease that
attacks young people, I believe—so sad.”

“I did know she was dead,” I said. I got up.
“Thank you, Mrs. Tuckerton, very much in-
deed for showing me your house.’ I shook
hands. Then as I moved away, I turned back.
“By the way,” I said, “I think you know the
Pale Horse, don’t you?”

There wasn’t any doubt of the reaction.
Panic, sheer panic, showed in those pale eyes.
Beneath the makeup her face was suddenly
white and afraid.

Her voice came shrill and high: ‘Pale
Horse? What do you mean by the Pale Horse?
I don’t know anything about the Pale Horse.”

I let mild surprise show in my eyes. ‘“‘Oh,
my mistake. There’s a very interesting old
pub—in Much Deeping. I was down there the
other day and was taken to see it. I certainly
thought your name was mentioned—but per-
haps it was someone else of the same name.”
I paused. “The place has got. . . quite a repu-
tation.”

| enjoyed my exit line. In one of the mirrors
on the wall I saw Mrs. Tuckerton’s face
reflected. She was very, very frightened and I
saw just how she would look in years to come.
It was not a pleasant sight... .

“So now we’re quite sure,”’ said Ginger.

““We were sure before.”

““Yes—reasonably so. But this does clinch
iti.

I was silent. I was visualizing Mrs. Tucker-
ton journeying to Birmingham. Entering the
Municipal Square Buildings—meeting Mr.
Bradley. She would have been a hard bar-
gainer. But in the end the terms had been
agreed, some document duly signed, and then
what? That was where imagination stopped.
That was what we didn’t know.

I came out of my meditation to see Ginger
watching me. “We’ve got something fairly
definite now. Enough to act upon, do you
think? Could we go to the police?”

I shook my head doubtfully. “Evidence of
intent. But is that enough? It’s this death-wish
nonsense. Oh’’—I forestalled her interrup-
tion—“‘it mayn’t be nonsense—but it would
sound like it in court. We’ve no idea, even, of
what the actual procedure is.”

“Well then, we’ve got to know. But how?”

“One would have to see—or hear—with
one’s own eyes and ears. But there’s absolutely
no place one could hide oneself in that great
barn of a room—and I suppose that’s where
It—whatever ‘It’ is—must take place.”

Ginger sat up very straight, gave her head
a kind of toss, and said, ‘““There’s only one
way to find out what does really happen.
You’ve got to be a genuine c/ient.””

I stared at her.

“You or I, it doesn’t matter which, has got
to want somebody put out of the way. One of
us has got to go to Bradley and fix it up.”

“T don’t like it,” I said sharply.

“Why?”

“‘Well—it opens up dangerous possibilities.
We’ve got to have a victim—we’ve got to give
him a name. They’d almost certainly check
up; don’t you agree?”

Ginger thought a minute and then nodded.
“Yes. The victim’s got to be a real person and

we've got to have a real reason for getting rid
of him.”

“The person, whoever it was, would have to
agree,”’ I said slowly. “It’s a lot to ask.”

“Suppose now that one of us is desperate to
get rid of someone,” said Ginger. ““There’s my
dear old Uncle Mervyn—I’ll come into a very
nice packet when he pops off. So there’s a mo-
tive there. But he’s over seventy, so it would
really seem more sensible for me to wait for
natural causes, unless I was in some terrible
hole for money—besides, he’s a pet, and I’m
very fond of him. Have you got any relatives
who are going to leave you money?”

“No one at all.”

“Bother. It could be blackmail, perhaps?
Bigamy?’’ She fixed me with a reproachful
stare. ““What a pity you’ve never married. We
could have cooked something up if you had.”

Some expression on my face must have
given me away. Ginger was quick.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Have I raked up
something that hurts?”

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t hurt. It was a long
time ago, while I was at the university. We
kept it dark. I wasn’t even of age. We lied
about our ages.”

““What happened?”

“We went to Italy in the long vacation.
There was an accident—a car accident. She
was killed outright.”

“And you?”

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

“T wasn’t in the car. She was with... a
friend.”

Ginger gave me a quick glance. I think she
understood the way it had been. The shock of
my discovery that the girl I had married was
not the kind who makes a faithful wife.

Ginger reverted to practical matters. “It’s
an answer to prayer! Nothing could be sim-
pler! You’re desperately in love with someone
and you want to marry her—but you don’t
know whether your wife is still alive. You’ve
parted years ago and never heard from her
since. Dare you risk it? While you’re thinking
it out, sudden reappearance of the wife! She
turns up out of the blue, refuses to give youa
divorce, and threatens to go to your young
woman and spill the beans.”

““Who’s my young woman?” Tasked, slightly
confused. “You?”

Ginger looked shocked. “Certainly ngt
I’m quite the wrong type—I’d probably g
and live in sin with you. No, you know quite
well who I mean—that statuesque brunette you
go around with. Very highbrow and serious.’

“Hermia Redcliffe? Who told you abou
her?”
“Poppy, of course. She’s rich, too, isn
she?’’

“She’s extremely well off. But really ——’

position. You are about to pop the questioi
to Hermia when up turns the unwanted wif
from the past. And then—you hear of the Pal
Horse. I'll bet anything you like that Thyrze
and that half-witted peasant Bella, thoug
that that was why you came that day. The
took it as a tentative approach, and that’s w
Thyrza was so forthcoming. It was a sales tal]
they were giving you.”

She paused triumphantly. There was so
thing in what she said. But I didn’t quif
see —— “It’s all very well to invent a fictitioy
wife, resurrected from the past, but the

“I’m your wife
“You don’t know what you’re saying. I
putting you in danger.”
“That’s my lookout.”

water for a moment.”

“Oh yes it would. I’ve been thinking it o}
I arrive at a furnished flat, with a suitcase
two with foreign labels. I take the flat in t
name of Mrs. Easterbrook—and who {
earth is to say I’m not Mrs. Easterbrook?” |

‘*Anyone who knows you.” :

“Anyone who knows me won’t see me. I]
away from my job, ill. A spot of hair dj
different clothes and lots of makeup, and I
best friends wouldn’t look at me twice! W
should anyone in the Pale Horse doubt |
who I say I am? If you’re prepared to
papers wagering large sums of money that |
stay alive, there’s not likely to be any do

your friendship with Hermia and all that
why should there be any doubts?”

I looked at her. I liked her very much
red hair, her freckles, her gallant spirit. Bi
couldn’t let her take the risks she wanted
take.

“T can’t stand for it, Ginger,” I said. “S}
pose . . . something happened.”

“Isn’t that my affair?”

“No. I got you into all this.”

“Yes, perhaps you did. But we’re bot
now—and we've got to do something. 'n
ing serious now, Mark. I’m not prete!
this is all just fun. If what we believe te
true is true, it’s a sickening, beastly th
You see, it’s not hot-blooded murder, fi
hate or jealousy; it’s murder as a busine.
murder that takes no account of who or ¥
the victim may be. That is,” she added, “il
whole thing is true?” i

“It is true,” I said. “’That’s why I’m af
for you.” i

CONTINUED ON PAGI

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106
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We thrashed it out, to and fro, dingdong,
repeating ourselves while the hands of the
clock on my mantelpiece moved slowly round.

Finally Ginger summed up: “‘It’s like this.
I’m forewarned and forearmed. I know what
someone is trying to do to me. And I don’t be-
lieve for one moment she can do it! If every-
one’s got a ‘desire for death,’ mine isn’t well
developed. I’ve good health. And I simply can-
not believe that Ill develop gallstones or
meningitis just because old Thyrza draws
pentagrams on the floor, or Sybil throws a
trance. Can you?”

“No,” I said. “I can’t believe it. But,” I
added, “I do.”

We looked at each other.

“Yes,” said Ginger. ““That’s our weakness.”

“Look here,’ I said. “I think, before we
embark on this, we ought to go to the police—
now—before we try anything else.”

“I’m agreeable to that,” said Ginger slowly.
“What police? Scotland Yard?”

“No,” I said. “I think Divisional Detective
Inspector Furneaux is the best bet.”’. . .

I liked Divisional Detective Inspector Fur-
neaux at first sight. He had an air of quiet
ability. I thought, too, that he was an imag-
inative man—the kind of man who would be
willing to consider possibilities that were not
orthodox.

I told him of the first mention of the Pale
Horse at the Fantasie. Then I described my
visit to Rhoda, and my introduction to the
“three weird sisters.’ I related, as accurately
as I could, Thyrza Grey’s conversation on that
particular afternoon.

“And you were impressed by what she
said?”

I felt embarrassed. ‘I made up my mind
to find out more about this business.”

“And you set about it, how?”

I told him of my call on Mrs. Tuckerton.
Finally I came to Mr. Bradley and the Munici-
pal Square Buildings in Birmingham.

“Bradley,” he said. ‘‘So Bradley’s in this?”

“You know him?”

“Oh yes, we know Mr. Bradley. He’s a
smooth dealer, adept at never doing anything
that we can pin on him. He knows every trick
and dodge of the legal game.”

“Now that I’ve told you about our con-
versation, could one act on it?”

Furneaux slowly shook his head. ““No, we
couldn’t act on it. To begin with, Bradley was
quite right when he told you that a man can
bet on anything. You bet somebody won’t
die—and you lose. What is there criminal
about that?”

He paused a minute and then said, “Let’s
assemble what we’ve got. It seems reasonably
certain that there is some agency or organiza-
tion that specializes in what one might call the
removal of unwanted persons. There’s noth-
ing to show that the victims haven’t died a
perfectly natural death.”

He shook his head angrily, and went on:

“This woman, Thyrza Grey; you say she
boasted to you about her powers! Well, she
can do so with impunity. According to her
own account, she just sits in a room and em-
ploys telepathy. Why, the whole thing would
be laughed out of court!”

I spoke in a rush. ‘‘I think there’s a chance—
a possible chance—of getting to know a bit
more about all this. I and a friend of mine
have worked out a plan. What, exactly, hap-
pens at the Pale Horse? We don’t know, and
somebody’s got to go and find out.”

**Go on.”

“Because until we do know, exactly, what
Thyrza Grey actually does, we can’t get any
further. Your police doctor, Jim Corrigan,
says the whole idea is poppycock—but is it,
Inspector Furneaux, is it?”

Furneaux sighed. “You know what I'd an-
swer—what any sane person would answer.
The answer would be, ‘Yes, of course it is!”
But very odd things have happened during the
last hundred years. Would anyone have be-
lieved seventy years ago that a person could
hear Big Ben strike twelve on a little box, and
after it had finished striking hear it again with
his own ears through the window, from the ac-
tual clock itself? Would you believe you could

1 (ARENDT
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hear a man speaking in New York in your own
drawing room, without so much as a connect-
ing wire?”

“In other words,” I said, “‘the science of to-
morrow is the supernatural of today.”

“I’m not talking officially, mind,” Furneaux
warned me.

“Man, you're talking sense. And the answer
is, someone has got to go and see what actu-
ally happens.”

I settled down then, and told him about it.
He listened frowning and pulling at his lower
lip.

“Mr. Easterbrook,” he said at last, “I
don’t know whether you fully realize that what

There are three things that can never be
hidden-love, a mountain, and one riding
on a camel. ARAB PROVERB

you are proposing to do may be dangerous.
These are dangerous people. It may be dan-
gerous for you—but it will certainly be dan-
gerous for your friend.”

“IT know,” I said, “I know.We’ve been over
it a hundred times. I don’t like her playing the
part she’s going to play. But she’s deter-
mined—absolutely determined.” ...

I felt no nervousness on my second visit to
Bradley. In fact, I enjoyed it.

“Very pleased to see you,” Mr. Bradley
said, advancing a pudgy hand. “So you’ve
been thinking your little problem over, have
you? Well, as I said, no hurry. Take your
time.”

I said, ““That’s just what I can’t do. It’s—
well—it’s rather urgent.”

Mr. Bradley was very adroit. He prompted,
eased over difficult words and phrases. So
good was he that I felt no difficulty at all in
telling him about my youthful infatuation for
Doreen and our secretive marriage. I was pur-
posefully vague over details. If Bradley took it
that my young wife had gone off with another

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

man, or that there had been another man in

the offing all along, that was good enough.

“But you know,” I said anxiously, ‘‘al-
though she wasn’t . . . well, wasn’t quite what
I thought her, I'd never have thought that
she’d be like this—that she’d behave like this,

I mean.” 4
“What exactly has she been doing to you?”
What my “wife” had done to me, I ex-

plained, was to come back. “I suppose it seems —

extraordinary—but actually, I suppose, I as- |
sumed she must be dead.”

Bradley shook his head at me. ‘‘Wishful
thinking. The truth is you wanted to forget all
about her.”

“Yes,” I said gratefully. “You see, then it
wasn’t as though I wanted to marry someone
else.” i

“But you do now, eh; is that it?”

I admitted shamefacedly that, yes, lately, & |
had considered marrying —— |

“Quite natural, my dear sir. You’ve found |
someone, no doubt, thoroughly suited to you. ’
Able to share your literary tastes and your
way of life. A true companion.”

I s.w then that he knew about Hermia. It —
would have been easy. Any inquiries made —
about me would have revealed the fact that I |
had only one close woman friend.

“What about divorce?” he asked. “‘Isn’t §
that the natural solution?” q

I said, ““There’s no question of divorce. #
She—my wife—wants to come back to me.
She—she’s utterly unreasonable. She knows #

there’s someone, and—and ——” 7
“Acting nasty. I see. Doesn’t look as though #:
there’s any way out, unless, of course —— But ¥:
she’s quite young.” t
“She'll live for years,”’ I said bitterly. ]

“Well, the odds are on your side, I admit. 7)
But let’s have a wager on it. Fifteen hundred to #

one the lady dies between now and Christmas:

how’s that?” he
“Sooner! It will have to be sooner. I can’t fii
wait.” He

“Alters the odds a bit,’ he said. ““We’ll say fr
eighteen hundred to one your wife’s a goner in qu
under a month. I’ve a sort of feeling about it.” }\)

i ber

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Da hi

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skeptical frame of mind, Mr. Easterbrook. It
does so hinder things.”

“Mr. Easterbrook has not come here to
mock,” said Thyrza.

Sybil lay down on the purple divan. Thyrza
bent over her, arranging her draperies. Then
she wheeled up what was, in effect, a kind of

signed some form of IOU. The phraseol-
\/ was too full of legal words for me to un-
/stand. Actually I very much doubted that
had any legal significance whatever.

Now for the—er—arrangements,” said
). Bradley. ““You remember Miss Grey?”

| said of course I remembered Miss Grey.

FAn amazing woman. She'll want some- canopy on wheels. This she placed so that it j
ng your wife has worn—a glove, handker- overshadowed the divan and left Sybil in a | SHOE
f, anything like that ——” deep shadow in the middle of outlying dim ;
But why? In the name of ——” twilight. ;
‘Don’t ask me why. I’ve not the least idea. “Too much light is harmful to a complete : p
| s Grey keeps her secrets to herself.” trance,” she said. 4 2
Bella came out of the shadows. The two
e paused, and then went on in an almost women approached me. With her right hand
erly tone. Thyrza took my left. Her left hand took Bella’s
My advice is as follows, Mr. Easterbrook. right, Bella’s left hand found my right hand.
a visit to your wife. Soothe her down, let Thyrza’s hand was dry and hard, Bella’s was
) think that you’re coming round to the idea cold and boneless—it felt like a slug in mine
i reconciliation. Then, having purloined a_ and I shivered in revulsion. There was a long
Ne of daily wear in an unobtrusive manner, wait with only the sound of breathing, Bella’s :
will go down to Much Deeping.” He - slightly wheezy, Sybil’s deep and regular. :
sed thoughtfully. “‘Let me see, I think you And then, suddenly, Sybil spoke. Not, how-
Nitioned on your previous visit that you ever, in her own voice. It was a man’s deep
friends—relations—in the neighbor- voice, as unlike her own mincing accents as
id?” could be. It had a guttural foreign accent.
[A cousin.” “T am here,” the voice said. “I am Macan-
/That makes it very simple. You express dal.” the shoe
rself as intrigued by the inhabitants of the Thyrza said, ‘““Are you prepared, Macandal, that takes years /
3 Horse. You want to participate in a sé- to submit to my desire and my will?” off your feet ;
» there. Nothing can sound simpler. The new deep voice said, “I am. be
‘And—and after that?” _ i ; “Will you undertake to dedicate this body Siunlinedounchoed lsathor:
je shook his head, smiling. “‘That’s all I which you now inhabit that death may pass :
jtell you. All, in fact, that I know. After- through it, obeying such natural laws as may soft and cool ie
dd, I would suggest that you take a little be available in the body of the recipient?” @ deeply foam cushioned a
/abroad. The Italian Riviera is very pleas- “The dead must be sent to cause death. It ; for heel-to-toe softness pa
at this time of year.” Oa shall be so.” @ walk-all-day heel, a
Are you really going to a séance at Thyr- Thyrza drew back a step. Bella came up and atholod and sliavel ne
»” Rhoda demanded. held out what I saw was a crucifix. Thyrza Se ey Ls
hy not?” placed it on Sybil’s breast in a reversed posi- @ trim, new snipped toe o

| never knew you were interested in that
of thing, Mark.”
’m not really,” I said truthfully. “But it’s
a queer setup, those three. I’m curious to
what sort of show they put on.”
ou’ve been very odd lately, Mark,” Rhoda

® me. “Ever since you arrived. Is anything

atter ?”

0, of course not. What should be the
fer ?””
| believe you're in love,” said Rhoda ac-
gly. “Yes, that’s it. Being in love has a
bad effect on men—it seems to addle their

hank you!” I said.
Yh, don’t be cross with me, Mark. I think
very good thing really—and I’m de-
ed. Hermia is really very nice. And she
y is just the person for you—good-looking
lever; absolutely suitable.”
hat,” I said, “is one of the cattiest things
ould say about anyone.” ...
was a dark overcast night, no stars.
za and I came out of the dense outer
ness into the long, lighted room. The
by night, was transformed. By day it
seemed a pleasant library. Now it had
e something more. The lighting was in-
and flooded the room with a soft but
ight. In the center of the ffoor was a kind
ised bed or divan. It was spread with a
e cloth, embroidered with-various cab-
r signs.
the far side of the room was what ap-
d to be a small brazier, and next to it a
opper basin. On the other side, set back
pt touching the wall, was a heavy oak

t there,” Thyrza said. Then she ad-
ed me in an emphatic deep voice: “‘I must
Ss upon you, Mr. Easterbrook, the ne-
y of remaining absolutely still. This is no
Ss game. I am dealing with forces that are
rous to those who do not know how to
e them!” She paused and then asked,
have’ brought what you were instructed
ng?”
hout a word I drew from my pocket a
suede glove and handed it to her.
put it down on top of what appeared to
urge radio cabinet at the end of the room.
she raised her voice a little. ‘‘Bella.
We are ready.”
il came in first. She wore a long black
over her peacock dress. This she flung
ith a dramatic gesture.

never knows. Please don’t adopt a

f do hope it will be all right,” she said.

tion. Then Bella brought a small green phial.
From this Thyrza poured out a drop or two
onto Sybil’s forehead, and traced something
with her finger. Again I fancied that it was the
sign of the cross upside down.

She stepped back and said, “All is ready.”

Bella repeated the words: “All is ready.”

Bella left the room. She came back, carrying
a white cock. It was alive and struggling to be
free.

Now with white chalk she knelt down and
began to draw signs on the floor round the
brazier and the copper bowl. She set down the
cock with its beak on the white curving line
round the bowl and it stayed there motionless.

“We are ready,” said Thyrza.

She went over to what I had taken to be a
radio cabinet. It opened up and I saw that it
was a large electrical contrivance of some com-
plicated kind. It moved like a trolley and she
wheeled it slowly and carefully to a position
near the divan.

She bent over it, adjusting the controls,
murmuring to herself, “Compass, north,
northeast... degrees .. . that’s about right.”
She took the glove and adjusted it in a particu-
lar position, switching on a small violet light
beside it.

SBosse she spoke to the inert figure on the
divan. “Sybil Diana Helen, you are set free
from your mortal sheath which the spirit
Macandal guards safely for you. You are free
to be at one with the owner of this glove. As
with all human beings, her goal in life is toward
death. There is no final satisfaction but death.
Only death solves all problems. Only death
gives true peace. All great ones have known it.
Remember Macbeth: “After life’s fitful fever
he sleeps well.” Remember the ecstasy of Tris-
tan and Isolde. Love and death. Love and
death. But the greatest of these is death.”

The words rang out, echoing, repeating. The
big boxlike machine had started to emit a low
hum, the bulbs in it glowed. I felt dazed, car-
ried away. I realized vaguely why Mrs. Oliver
had been frightened, not of Thyrza but of the
seemingly silly Sybil. Sybil had a power, a
natural gift, nothing to do with mind or intel-
lect; it was a physical power, the power to
separate herself from her body. And, so sepa-
rated, her mind was not hers, but Thyrza’s.
And Thyrza was using her temporary posses-
sion.

Yes, but the box? Where did the box come
in?

And suddenly all my fear was transferred
to the box! What devilish secret was being

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practiced through its agency? Could there be
physically produced rays of some kind that
acted on the cells of the mind? Of a particular
mind?

Thyrza’s voice went on: “The weak spot...
there is always a weak spot . . . deep in the tis-
sues of the flesh. . .. Through weakness comes
strength—the strength and peace of death... .
Toward death—slowly, naturally, toward
death—the true way, the natural way. The tis-
sues of the body obey the mind . . . command
them—command them. .. . Toward death...
death, the conqueror... death...soon...
very soon... death... death... DEATH!” Her
voice rose in a great swelling cry.

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And another animal cry came from Bella.
She rose up, a knife flashed—there was a hor-
rible strangled squawk from the cockerel. . . .
Blood dripped into the copper bowl. Bella
came running, the bowl held out.

She screamed, “Blood... the blood...
BLOOD!”

Thyrza whipped out the glove from the ma-
chine. Bella took it, dipped it in the blood, re-
turned it to Thyrza, who replaced it.

Bella’s voice rose again in that high ecstatic
call: “The blood, the blood, the blood!”.. .

It seemed an eternity before I heard Ginger’s
voice on the telephone.

“You're all right?”

“Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I
be?”

Waves of relief swept over me. “I just
thought you might have had bad dreams or
something,” I said rather lamely.

“Well, I didn’t. I expected to have, but all
that happened was that I kept waking up and
wondering if I felt anything peculiar happen-
ing to me. I really felt almost indignant be-
cause nothing did happen to me.”

I laughed.

“But go on—tell me,” said Ginger. “What’s
it all about?”

“Nothing much out of the ordinary. Sybil
lay on a purple couch and went into a trance.
Frankly, the whole thing was quite a perform-
ance.”

“And what do we do next?” demanded
Ginger. ‘‘Have I got to stay put for another
week or so?”

“If I want to collect a hundred pounds from
Mr. Bradley, yes.”

“You'll do that if it’s the last thing you ever
do.”’ Her voice was a little odd.

“No suspicious characters
you?” I asked,

“Only what you might expect. The milk-
man, the man to read the gas meter, a woman
asking me what patent medicines and cos-
metics I used, someone asking me to sign a
petition to abolish nuclear bombs.”

““Seems harmless enough,” I commented.

““What were you expecting?”

“I don’t really know.” I had wished, I sup-
pose, for something overt that I could tackle.

“Oh! I had one other visitor,’ said Ginger.
“Your friend Dr. Corrigan. He’s nice.”

“IT suppose Furneaux sent him.”

““He seemed to think he ought to rally to a
namesake. Up the Corrigans!”’

I rang off, much relieved in mind.

I got back to find Rhoda busy on the lawn
with one of her dogs. She was anointing it
with some unguent.

“The vet’s just gone,”’ she said. “He says it’s
ringworm. It’s frightfully catching, I believe.
This stuff makes the hair fall out,’’ she went
on. “It leaves bald spots for a bit, but it grows
again.”

I nodded, offered to help, was refused, for
which I was thankful, and wandered off again,
struck by an idea. Why should I not go and
call on Mr. Venables?

approached

ie more I considered the idea, the more I
liked it. There was something mysterious
about Venables. I had felt it from the first.
He had, I was sure, first-class brains. A man,
perhaps, too clever to be a killer himself—but
a man who could organize killing very well if
he wanted to. So in due course I turned in at
the gates of Prior’s Court and walked up the
quarter mile of winding drive.

Venables gave me a most cordial welcome,
wheeling his chair forward and greeting me
quite as an old friend.

I apologized for dropping in as I had, but
said that it was a sudden impulse. ‘‘I’d love to
have another look at your Mogul miniatures.
I hadn’t nearly enough time to see them prop-
erly the other day.”

“Of course you hadn’t. I’m glad you appre-
ciate them. Such exquisite detail.”

I must admit that I enjoyed enormously
having a closer look at some of the really won-
derful things he had in his possession.

Venables shrugged his shoulders. “I have
the best. I insist upon it. Naturally—one has
to pay! I pay.”

All the natural arrogance of the man showed
here. I said dryly, “If one is fortunate enough
to be able to do that, it certainly solves many

| problems.”

“It all depends on what one wants out of
life. I know what I want. Infinite leisure in
which to contemplate the beautiful things of
this world, natural and artificial. Since to go
and see them in their natural surroundings has
of late years been denied me, I have them
brought from all over the world to me.”

“But money still has to be got before that
can happen.”

“Yes, one must plan one’s coups—but it’s a
changing world, Easterbrook. It always has
been—but now the changes come more rap-
idly. The tempo has quickened—one must
take advantage of that. The new techniques
are here to use. Already we have machines
that can supply us with the answer to ques-
tions in seconds—compared with hours or
days of human labor.”

““Will machines take the place of men even-
tually?”

“Of men, yes. But man, no. There has to be
man the controller, man the thinker who
works out the questions to ask the machines.”

ONCE AS A CHILD
ON THE WING

By ELIZABETH GRAHAM

Once as a child on the wing |
topped

All the fences, trees, and various
roofs

In the sun-filmed town where |
lived every day

On the supple certainty of rules
and proofs;

Or I'd saddle my pony—bribe him
with oats

From his chosen lot—and off we
would go

In the seven directions of my
casual aim

To learn whatever there was to
know.

In those days | thought nothing
at all

Of the risks involved, and laughed
at the joke

(Though the willow wept!) when I
fell to earth,

Nor blamed the bough my own
weight broke.

““Man the superman?” I put a faint inflec-
tion of ridicule into my voice.

“Why not, Easterbrook? Why not? Re-
member, we know—or are beginning to
know—something about man the human
animal. Not only the body, but the mind of
man, responds to certain stimuli.”

*‘A dangerous doctrine,” I said.

“All life is dangerous. In the end, perhaps,
not only great natural forces, but the work of
our own hands may destroy it. We are very
near to that happening at this moment.”

““No one can deny that, certainly. But I’m
interested in your theory of power—power
over mind.”

“Oh, that.’ Venables looked suddenly em-
barrassed. “‘Probably I exaggerated.”

I found his embarrassment interesting.
Venables was a man who lived much alone. A
man who is alone develops the need to talk—
to someone, anyone. Venables had talked to
me—and perhaps not wisely.

“‘Man the superman,” I said. “It seems to
me that your superman is . . . a superman with
a difference. A man who could wield power—
and never be known to wield power. A man
who sits in his chair and pulls the strings.”

I looked at him as I spoke. He smiled. ““Are
you casting me for the part, Easterbrook? I
wish it were indeed so. One needs something
to compensate for .. . this!”

His hand struck down on the rug across his
knees, and I heard the sudden sharp bitterness
of his voice.

Se nAwVeikev jive Yeu

“IT won’t offer you my sympathy,” I sa
“Sympathy is very little good to a man}
your position. You are a rich man who kno
how to buy wisely, who has appreciation ai
taste. But I feel that there is more to it th
mere possession. You set out to acquire bez
tiful and interesting things—and you he
practically hinted that they were not acqui
through the medium of laborious toil.”

“Quite right, Easterbrook, quite right. A
said, only the fool toils. The secret of alls
cess is something quite simple—but it has
be thought of! Something simple. One thir
of it, one puts it into execution—and there y
are!”

I stared at him. Something simple—sor
thing as simple as the removal of unwant
persons? Fulfilling a need. An action pf
formed without danger to anybody excep’

victim. Planned by Mr. Venables sitting
wheelchair, with his great hooked noseg
the beak of a bird of prey, and his promin
Adam’s apple moving up and down. Execu
by—whom? Thyrza Grey?

We parted on an amicable note. Was th
an amused and malicious twinkle in his ey
thought so, but I could not be sure. I fel
quite likely that I was now imagining things

Darkness had already fallen, and as I mo
rather uncertainly down the winding driv
collided with someone moving in the oppo!
direction.

“T’m so sorry.”

“Not at all. Entirely my fault, I ass
you.”

The stranger produced a torch from
pocket, switched it on and handed it to me
its light I saw that he was a man of middle a
with a round cherubic face, a black mustac}
and spectacles. He wore a good quality de
raincoat and can be described only as
acme of respectability. All the same, it
just cross my mind to wonder why he was
using his torch himself since he had it wi}
him.

“Pray keep the torch until you get to
gate,” he said.

“But you—you are going to the house?

“No, no. I am going the same way tha
are. Er—down the drive. And then up to
bus stop. I am catching a bus back to Bou
mouth. I have just moved into a
bungalow there.”

I felt a faint stirring in my mind. What
I recently heard about a bungalow at Bo
mouth? While I was trying to remembe
companion, seeming very ill at ease, was
pelled to speak.

“You must think it very odd—I admi
course, it is odd—to find someone wande
in the grounds of a house when the
person in question is not acquainted with
owner of the house. My reasons are a
difficult to explain, though I assure you tk
have reasons. Actually, I am a pharma
who has recently sold an old-established b
ness in London. My name is Zacha
Osborne.”

Enlightenment came to me. Meanwhile
was continuing.

“This is Mr. Venables’s house, is it not)
suppose—er—he is a friend of yours?” —_|

I said with deliberation, ““Hardly a frien
have met him only once before today, whel]
was taken to lunch with him by some frien}
of mine.”

“Ah, yes—I see. Yes, precisely.”

We had come now to the entrance gai
Mr. Osborne paused irresolutely; then wot!
came from him in a rush.

“T shouldn’t like you to think —— I
technically, of course, I was trespassing. B
really would like to explain to you, Mr
er ——” ;

“Easterbrook. Mark Easterbook.”

“Mr. Easterbrook. As I say, I wol/
welcome the chance of explaining my rat!
odd behavior. If you have the time? It is ¢
five minutes’ walk up the lane to the m
road. There is quite a respectable little caf
the petrol station close to the bus stop.
bus is not due for over twenty minutes. If
would allow me to offer you a cup of coffee

I accepted, and we walked to the café
gether. Mr. Osborne ordered coffee

y |

CONTINUED ON PAGE])

:
RIL, 1962

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biscuits for two, then leaned forward across
the table and unburdened himself.

“This all stems from a case you may have
seen reported in the newspapers some time
ago. It concerned a Roman Catholic parish
priest who was set upon one night and killed.
By chance I had happened to be standing
outside the door of my establishment that
evening and had seen Father Gorman go by.
Following him at a short distance was a man
whose appearance was unusual enough to
attract my attention. Anyway, I described the
man I had seen to the police. They thanked
me and that was that.

“Now I come to the rather surprising part
of my story. About ten days ago I came over
here to a church fete and what was my sur-
prise to see this same man I have mentioned.
He must have had, or so I thought, an acci-
dent, since he was propelling himself in a
wheelchair. I inquired about him and was
told he was a rich local resident of the name
of Venables. I wrote to the police officer, who
came down to Bournemouth—Inspector
Furneaux was his name. He informed me that
Mr. Venables had been a cripple for some
years, as a result of polio. I must, he said, have
been misled by a chance resemblance.”

W ell, that seems to settle that,” I said.

““Yes,”’ said Mr. Osborne. “Yes.” His voice
was markedly dissatisfied. “I’m an obstinate
man, Mr. Easterbrook. As the days passed by
I felt more and more sure that the man I saw
was Venables and no other. The police said it
was impossible. But was it impossible?”

“Surely, with a disability of that kind ——’

He stopped me by waving an agitated fore-
finger. “Yes, yes, but there are ways—ways
that a chemist is more likely to appreciate
than a doctor. Certain drugs, for instance, can
induce fever—various rashes and skin irri-
tations—dryness of throat, or increase of
secretions ———”

“But hardly atrophied limbs,” I pointed
out.

“Quite, quite. But who says that Mr.
Venables’ limbs are atrophied?”

““Well—his doctor, I suppose?”

“Quite. Mr. Venables’ doctor is in London,
a Harley Street man. The local doctor here
has never attended Mr. Venables. Mr. Venables
goes up once a month to Harley Street.”

I looked at him curiously.

““Suppose—just suppose”—the forefinger
was now wiggling excitedly—‘‘our Mr. V.
makes contact with a genuine polio case in
poor circumstances. He makes a proposition.
Genuine sufferer calling himself Mr. V. calls
in London specialist, and is examined, so that
the case history is all correct. Then Mr. V.
takes house in country. And there you are!
Mr. Venables well documented as _ polio
sufferer with atrophied limbs. He is seen
locally in a wheelchair, and so on.”

“But why ?”

“Ah,” said Mr. Osborne. ‘‘That’s another
question, isn’t it? I won’t tell you my theory—
I expect you’d laugh at it. But there you are—
a very nice alibi set up for a man who might
want an alibi. He could be here, there and
everywhere, and nobody would know.” Mr.
Osborne paused and glanced at his watch.
““My bus is due. I must be quick. I get to
brooding about this, you see. So I thought I’d
come out here, go into the grounds and—well,
do a bit of spying. If, for instance, I spotted
our Mr. Venables having a quiet walk around
in the grounds, well, there you are! Walking
about his library, maybe, never dreaming that
anyone would be spying on him?”

““Why are you so sure the man you saw that
night was Venables?”

“IT know it was Venables!’ He shot to his
feet. “My bus is coming. Pleased to have met
you, Mr. Easterbrook.”

I said, ‘But you haven’t told me what you
think Mr. Venables is up to.”

Mr. Osborne looked embarrassed. “You'll
laugh, I daresay. Everybody says he’s rich,

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LADIES’ HOME JOUR

had outlined, but I had to admit that t
might just possibly be something in it. . .

Ringing up Ginger on the following m
ing, I was struck by fear. ‘“‘Ginger!
voice 2

“Tve just got a bit of a sore throat or sc
thing, that’s all.”

“Ginger!”

““Now look, Mark, anyone can have a
throat. I'm starting a cold, I expect. ¢
touch of flu.”

“Flu? Look here, don’t evade the p
Are you all right, or aren’t you? Do you
as though you might be starting flu?”

“Well—perhaps. Aching a bit all over,
know the kind of thing ——”

‘“Temperature ?”’

“Well, a bit of temperature.”

I sat there, a horrible cold sort of fg
stealing over me. I was frightened. I
too, that however much Ginger might e
to admit it, Ginger was frightened also. —

Her hoarse voice spoke again. ““Ma
don’t panic. You are panicking—and r
there’s nothing to panic about.” |

“Perhaps not. But we’ve got to take €
precaution. Ring up your doctor and ge!
to come and see you. At once.”

“All right. But he’ll think I’m a ter
fusspot.”

“Never mind. Do it! Then, when he’s I
ring me back.”

TIDE

By EMMA CROBAUGH

Because you offer me no choic
| shall pretend | never heard
The tide of longing in your voice
Under stern and forthright
word.

€:

But when its undercurrent start
To wreck your verbal barri-
cade,
Love will detect, between our
hearts,
The channel that my silenc
made.

After I had rung off, I sat for a lon!
staring at the black inhuman outline |
telephone. Panic—I mustn’t give w
panic. There was always flu about at th)
of year. The doctor would be reassu|
perhaps it would be only a slight chill. |

I saw in my mind’s eye Sybil in her p)
dress with its scrawled symbols of evil. |
Thyrza’s voice, willing, commanding. |
chalked floor Bella, chanting her evil
held up a struggling white cock.

superstitious nonsense. |

The box—not so easy, somehow, to if
the box. The box represented not |
superstition but a development of sci
possibility. But it wasn’t possible—it cll
be possible that ——

Ginger rang me two hours later.)
been,” she said. “He seemed a bit 5
but he says it’s probably flu. My tempallj,
is quite high. But it would be wil}
wouldn’t it?” There was a forlorn af.
her hoarse voice, under its surface bral

“You'll be all right,” I said —
you hear? You'll be all right. Do yi4,
very awful?” a

“Well—fever, and aching, and ev«(lilll,
hurts, my feet and my skin. I hate ail.
touching me... . And I’m so hot.” | }y

“That’s the fever, darling. Listy /}.
coming up to you! I’m leaving now— Nn
No, don’t protest.”

“All right. 'm glad you’re coming
I daresay—I’m not so brave as I thal,

I rang up Furneaux. “‘Miss Corrigi/$! ‘
I said. PB,

*‘What?”

“You heard me. She’s ill. She’s civ)
own doctor. He says perhaps flu. It /@)

\PRIL, 1962

3ut it may not. I don’t know what you
‘an do. The only idea that occurs to
ne is to get some kind of specialist on
Onlte

“What kind of specialist?”

““A psychiatrist—or psychoanalyst,
or psychologist. A psycho something.
\ man who knows about suggestion
ind hypnotism and brainwashing and
il that kind of thing. There are peo-
yle who deal in that kind of thing?”
_ “Of course there are. Yes. I think
jaure dead right. It may be just flu—
yut it may be some kind of psycho
susiness. Easterbrook, this may be
list what we’ve been hoping for!”’

I slammed down the receiver. We
night be learning something about
sychological weapons—but all that I
‘ared about was Ginger, gallant and

-ightened. We hadn’t really believed,
ither of us—or had we? No, of course

ve hadn’t. It had been a game—a

ops-and-robbers game. But it wasn’t
game.

The Pale Horse was proving itself a
pality.

/ I dropped my head into my hands
rd groaned... .
| I doubt if I shall ever forget the next

uw days. It appears to me now as a

‘ind of bewildered kaleidoscope with-

ut sequence or form. Ginger was re-

yoved from the flat to a private nurs-
ig home. I was allowed to see her
nly at visiting hours.

| Her own doctor, I gather, was in-

ined to stand on his high horse about

1e Whole business. His own diagnosis

‘as quite clear—bronchopneumonia

lowing on influenza, though com-
‘ticated by certain slightly unusual
| ‘mptoms.

| And, of course, all that he said was

ue. Ginger had bronchopneumonia.

nere was nothing mysterious about
je disease from which she was suffer-

g. She just had it—and had it badly.

_ had one interview with the Home
fice psychologist. He was a quaint
tle cock robin of a man, rising up
id down on his toes, with eyes twin-
bag through very thick lenses. He
‘ ted, I think, various forms of hypno-
‘m on Ginger, but, by what seemed
, be universal consent, no one would
/] me very much. Possibly because
2re was nothing to tell.
’ Finally, in an access of desperation,
‘ang up Poppy at her flower shop.
ould she come out and dine with
>? Poppy would love to do so. Hav-
t lulled her into a happy stupor with
@licious food and drink, I began a lit-
cautious probing. I asked her if she
Ea my friend Ginger. Poppy
ny “Of course,’ opening her big
the eyes, and asked what Ginger was
cing*nowadays.

“She’s very ill,” I said.

“Poor pet.”” Poppy looked as con-
«ned as it was possible for her to

bk, which was not very much.

“She got herself mixed up with

-§mething,” I said. “I believe she
é<ed your advice about it. Pale Horse
“s ff. Cost her a terrible lot of money.”
Oh,” exclaimed Poppy, eyes wider
eS. “So it was you.”
»! -or a moment or two [ didn’t un-
aitstand. Then it dawned on me that
-“Eppy was identifying me with the
“han” whose invalid wife was the bar
))t'Ginger’s happiness

she breathed excitedly,
irk?”

“It went a bit wrong somehow.” |
aled, ““The—er—business seems to
hve recoiled upon Ginger.”

“You mean ——”’ She made a ter-
‘2 mental effort. ““Like when you
®g an electric iron in wrong and you

2 a shock?”

Exactly,” I said. “Just like that.

Ci you ever know that sort of thing
pen before?”

‘Well, not that way.”

“Did it

“What way, then?”

“Well, | mean if one didn’t pay up—afterward.
A man I knew wouldn’t.”? Her voice dropped in
an awestricken fashion. ““He was killed in the
tube—fell off the platform in front of a train.”

“It might have been an accident.”

“Oh, no,” said Poppy, shocked at the thought.
“It was them.”

[ poured some more champagne into Poppy’s
glass. The maddening thing was that I didn’t
know what to ask her. If I said the wrong thing

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she would shut up in alarm like a clam and go
dumb on me. “My wife,” I said, “is still an in-
valid, but she doesn’t seem any worse.”

“That’s too bad,” said Poppy sympathetically.

“So what do I do next? Is there anyone I could
get at?”

“Eileen Brandon might know something—but
I don’t think so,’ Poppy said doubtfully.

The introduction of a totally unexpected Eileen
Brandon startled me. I asked who Eileen Brandon
was, and what she had to do with the Pale Horse.

111

“Nothing really,” Poppy told me. “It was
only an idea she got about C.R.C. So she chucked
up her job.”

e\Vinatisi@ske G72

“Well, I don’t really know exactly.
about Customers’ Reactions or
quite a small show.”

“And Eileen Brandon worked for them
did she have to do?”

“Just go round and ask questions—about tooth-
paste or gas stoves, and what kind of sponges you

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used. Too too depressing and dull. I mean,
who cares ?”

“Presumably C.R.C.” I felt a slight pricking
of excitement. It was a woman employed by
an association of this kind who had been
visited by Father Gorman on the fatal night.
And—yes—of course, someone of that kind
had called on Ginger at the fiat.

“Why did she chuck up her job? Because
she got bored?’

“She got a sort of idea about it—that it
wasn’t what it seemed.”

“She thought that it might be connected, in
some way, with the Pale Horse? Is that it?”

“Something of that kind. Anyway, she’s
working in an espresso-coffee bar off Totten-
ham Court Road now.”

There was nothing more to be got out of
her, so we finished up the champagne, and I
took her home and thanked her for a lovely
evening.

Next morning I managed to get through to
Jim Corrigan. “What about that psycholog-
ical pipsqueak you brought along to see me,
Corrigan? What does he say about Ginger?”

“A lot of long words. But I rather think,
Mark, that he’s truly baffled.”’

“‘She’s worse, isn’t she?” I asked.

““Well—yes.”

“Then something’s gor to be done.”

“Such as?”

“T’ve got one or two ideas. Going down to
Much Deeping, getting hold of Thyrza Grey
and forcing her, by scaring the living day-
lights out of her, to reverse the spell or what-
ever it is.”

“Well—that might work.”

“Or I might go to Venables ——

“Venables? But we’ve looked into all that.”

I outlined to him Osborne’s theory of im-
personation.

“That man’s got a bee in his bonnet,”’ said
Corrigan. ““He’s the kind of man who has
always got to be right.”

“But Corrigan, tell me, cou/dn’t it be as he
said? It’s possible, isn’t it?”

After a moment or two Corrigan said
slowly, “Yes. I have to admit it’s possible... .
There’s something wrong about the fellow.
He’s got a past of some kind. His money’s all
very cleverly accounted for, in a lot of ways. I
believe the Inland Revenue has been smelling
around Venables for some time. But he’s
clever. What do you see him as—the head of
the show?”

“Yes. I do. I think he’s the man who plans
it all. Besides ——’ I stopped short.

‘““Hullo—you still there?”

“Yes, I was thinking.
occurred to me ——”

“What was it?”

“Tve not got it clear yet. I haven’t worked
it out yet. Anyway, I must go now.”

”

Just an idea that

I rang off and had started for the door when
the telephone rang.

I hesitated. Ten to one it was Jim Corrigan
again, ringing back to know more about my
idea, and I didn’t want to talk to Jim just now.

I moved toward the door while the tele-
phone rang on persistently, naggingly. At last
I strode across impatiently and jerked the
receiver off its hook.

“Hullo?”

“Is that you, Mark?”
of Mrs. Oliver.

“Look here, I’m in a great hurry, got to go
out. Pll ring you back later.”

“That won’t do at all,” said Mrs. Oliver
firmly. ““You’ve got to listen to me now. It’s
important.”

I curbed my impatience as best I could,
glancing at the clock. ‘“‘Well?”’

“My cook had tonsillitis. She was quite bad
and she’s gone to the country—to her sis-
ter :

I gritted my teeth.
about that, but really

“Listen. I’ve not begun yet. Where was I?
Oh, yes. Milly had to go to the country and
so I rang up the agency and said what could
they send? And they said it was very difficult
just now—but they’d do what they could ——”

Never had I found my friend Ariadne
Oliver so maddening.

and so, this morning a woman came

along, and who do you think she turned out
to be?”

I recognized the voice

“Tm frightfully sorry

”

se eee eee eee

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA
“T can’t imagine. Look ——”

“A woman called Edith Binns—she he
been with that godmother of yours for yeai
Lady Hesketh-Dubois.”

“Well, that’s all very nice and I expe
you're very lucky to find her. I believe she
most trustworthy and reliable and all tha
But really—now ——”

“Wait, can’t you? I haven’t got to the poin
She sat and talked a great deal about Lac
Hesketh-Dubois and her last illness, and the
she said it.”

“Said what?”

“The thing that caught my attention. Som
thing like, ‘Poor dear lady, suffering like sk
did. That nasty thing on her brain, a growt
they say, and she in quite good health up
just before. And pitiful it was to see her gid
thick white hair coming out all over the
low. Coming out in handfuls.” And t
Mark, I thought of Mary Delafontaine, thi
friend of mine. Her hair came out. And
remembered what you told me about son
girl you’d seen in a Chelsea coffee place fig
ing with another girl, and getting her hair 4
pulled out in handfuls. Hair doesn’t come o
as easily as that, Mark. You try—just try
pull your own hair, just a little bit of it, out t
the roots! Just try it! You'll see. It’s n
natural, Mark, for all these people to ha
hair that comes out by the roots. It’s n
natural. It must be some special kind of ne
illness—it must mean something.”

I clutched the receiver and my head swa
Things, half-remembered scraps of kno
edge, drew together. Rhoda and her dogs «
the lawn; an article I had read in a medic
journal in New York; of course . . . of cours

“Bless you,” I said. “You’re wonderful

It is no disgrace to fail when trying. TI
one time you don’t want to fail is the la
time you try. CHARLES F. KETTERI

I slammed back the receiver, then took
off again. I dialed a number and was luc!
enough this time to get Furneaux straighi
away.

“Listen,” I said, ‘is Ginger’s hair comij
out by the roots in handfuls?”

““Well—as a matter of fact, I believe it
High fever, I suppose.”

“Fever my foot,” I said. ‘“‘What Ginge
suffering from, what they’ve all suffered fro}
is thallium poisoning. Please God, we may
in time.”...

“Are we in time? Will she live?”

I wandered up and down. I couldn’t
still. Furneaux sat watching me. He
patient and kind. ““You can be sure that eve
thing possible is being done.”

“So that’s the simple truth behind the P%
Horse. Poison. No witchcraft, no hypnotis
no scientific death rays. Plain poisoning! A
she flung that at me, damn her. Laughing
her cheek all the while, I expect.”

“‘Who are you talking about?”

“Thyrza Grey. That first afternoon wher
went to tea there. Talked about the Borg
and all the buildup of ‘rare and untraceal
poisons’; the poisoned gloves and all the r
of it. ‘Common white arsenic,’ she said, ‘a’
nothing else.’ This was just as simple. All th
hooey! The trance and the white cock and ¥)
brazier and the pentagrams and the vood§))))
and the reversed crucifix—all that was for 4)
crudely superstitious. And the famous *
was another bit of hooey for the conte!
porary-minded. The Pale Horse was a stalki
horse, neither more nor less. Attention was};
be focused on that, so that we’d never susp
what might be going on in another direction}.

“Do you think they’re all three in it?” ask)
Furneaux.

“IT shouldn’t think so. Bella’s belief
witchcraft is genuine, I should say. The sa}
with Sybil. She goes into a trance and ;
doesn’t know what happens. She belie’
everything that Thyrza tells her.”

“So Thyrza is the ruling spirit?”

I said slowly, ‘‘As far as the Pale Hors¢

concerned, yes. But she’s not the real bra

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 112

of the show. The real brain works behind the
scenes. Bradley runs the financial and legal
side. Apart from that, he doesn’t know what
happens elsewhere. He’s handsomely paid, of
course; so is Thyrza Grey.”

“What put thallium into your head?”

“Several things suddenly came together. The
hing I saw that night in Chelsea. A girl whose
hair was being pulled out by the roots by
another girl. And she said ‘it didn’t really
hurt.

“T read an article on thallium poisoning
when I was in America. A lot of workers in a
factory died one after the other. Their deaths
were put down to astonishingly varied causes.
Among them, if I remember rightly, were
paratyphoid apoplexy, alcoholic neuritis, bul-
bar paralysis, epilepsy, gastroenteritis, and so
ion. The symptoms vary a good deal, I under-
stand.”

“You talk like a medical dictionary!”
“Naturally. I’ve been looking it up. But
one thing always happens sooner or later. The
Wiair falls out. Thallium used to be used for
depilation at one time, particularly for chil-
dren—or dogs—with ringworm. Then it was
‘ound to be dangerous. It’s mainly used now-
ndays for rats, I believe. It’s tasteless, soluble
nnd easy to buy.”

Furneaux nodded. “But because the Pale
orse insists that the murderer must stay
way from his intended victim, no suspicion
»f poison ever arises. Why should it? There’s
0 interested party who could have had access
o food or drink. No purchase of thallium or
ny other poison is ever made by him or her.
he real work is done by someone who has no
onnection whatever with the victim.” He
aused. “Any ideas on that?”

“Only one. A common factor appears to be
at on every occasion some pleasant harm-
bss-seeming woman calls with a questionnaire
n behalf of a domestic-research unit.”
“You think that woman plants the poison?
.S a Sample? Something like that?”

“I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that,”
said slowly. “I have an idea that the women
e quite genuine. But we may be able to find
lut something if we talk to a woman called
ileen Brandon.” .. .

Eileen Brandon told us that before her pres-
nt employment, she had been employed by a
rm called Customers Reactions Classified
r over a year. She had left of her own accord,
s she had not cared for the type of work.
“Why didn’t you care for it, Mrs. Bran-
bn?” Furneaux asked the question.

She looked at him. “I’ve nothing definite to
» upon. Nothing definite that I could tell
bu.”

“Naturally. We understand that. This is a
onfidential inquiry.”

/“I see. But there is really very little I can
y. It didn’t seem to me to be run in a busi-
sslike way. I suspected that there must be
‘me ulterior object behind it? But what that
yject was I still don’t know.”

Furneaux asked exactly what work she had
en asked to do. Lists of names in a certain
ighborhood had been handed out. Her job
1s to visit those people, ask certain questions
d note down the answers.

And what struck youas wrong about that?”
asked.

‘The questions did not seem to me to fol-
up any particular line of research. They
med almost haphazard. As though—how
I put it?—they were a cloak for something

‘What articles did you deal with in the
estions?”’

‘It varied. Sometimes it was foodstuffs.
eals, cake mixes, or it might be soap flakes
d detergents. Sometimes patent medicines or
edies, brands of aspirin, cough pastilles,
eping pills, pep pills, gargles, mouthwashes,
igestion remedies, and so on.”

You were not asked,” Furneaux spoke
~ Bually, “to supply samples of any particular
yds?” ©

‘No. Nothing of that kind.”

Would it be possible, do you think, that
ong the question’ you were told to ask
ire was just one question, or one group of
Stions, that was the object of the enterprise,

{
5
[

and that the others might have been camou-
flage?”’

“Yes,” she said. “That would account for
the haphazard choice—but I haven’t the least
idea what question or questions were the im-
portant ones.”

Furneaux looked at her keenly. ‘‘There
must be more to it than what you’ve told us,”
he said gently.

“That’s the point, there isn’t really. I just
felt there was something wrong about the
whole setup. And then I talked to another
woman, a Mrs. Davis ae

“You talked to a Mrs. Davis—yes?” Fur-
neaux’s voice remained quite unchanged.

OOO

She wasn’t happy about things either. ‘It’s
not what it seems to be.’ That is what she
said.”

“That was all?”

“There was one other thing she said. I don’t
know what she meant by it. She said, ‘Some-
times I feel like Typhoid Mary.’”

Furneaux took a paper from his pocket and
handed it to her. ‘Do any of the names on that
list mean anything to you? Did you call upon
any of them that you can remember?”

“Ormerod.”

“You remember an Ormerod

“No. But Mrs. Davis mentioned him once.
He died very suddenly, didn’t he? Cerebral
hemorrhage. It upset her. She said, “He was
on my list a fortnight ago. Looked like a man
in the pink of condition.’ It was after that that
she made the remark about Typhoid Mary.”

“And that was all?”

“Well, some time later we met in a res-
taurant in Soho. I told her that I’d left the
C.R.C. and got another job. She said, ‘Per-
haps you’ve been wise. I'll tell you, I recog-
nized someone the other day. Coming out of a
house where he’d no business to be and carry-
ing a bag of tools. What was he doing with
those, I'd like to know?’ She asked me, too,
if ’'d ever come across a woman who ran a
pub called the Pale Horse somewhere. I asked
her what the Pale Horse had to do with it.”

“And what did she say?”

“She laughed and said, “Read your Bible.’
Mrs. Brandon added, “I don’t know what she
meant. That was the last time I saw her.”

“Mrs. Davis is dead,” said Furneaux.

“Dead! But—how?”

“Pneumonia, two months ago.”

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us, Mrs.
Brandon?”

“I’m afraid not. I have heard other people
mention that phrase—the Pale Horse—but if
you ask them about it, they shut up at once.
They look afraid too.” She looked uneasy.
“TI don’t want to be mixed up in anything dan-
gerous, Inspector Furneaux. I’ve got two small
children ——”

He looked at her keenly. Then he nodded his
head and let her go.

“That takes us a little further,” said Fur-
neaux when Eileen Brandon had gone. “Mrs.
Davis got to know too much. The question is,
how much did she know? That list of people,
I should say, is a list of people she had called

”

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Circumstantial evidence: the kind that often
hangs a jury.

Sometimes-I-Wonder Dept.

Why do persons say, “I never take a good
picture,” when they really mean, “Good pic-
tures are never taken of me”?

Why does the unvarnished truth always
sound so highly polished?

on in the course of her job, and who had sub-
sequently died. Hence the remark about
Typhoid Mary. The real question is, who was
it she ‘recognized’ coming out a of a house
where he had no business to be, and pretending
to be a workman of some kind? That must
have been the knowledge that made her
dangerous.” He looked at me. “You’ve an
idea, perhaps, who the man is?”

“T’ve an idea, but ——”

“I know. We haven’t got a particle of
evidence.”

He was silent a moment. Then he got up.

“But we'll get him,” he said. ‘Make no mis-
take. Once we know definitely who it is, there
are always ways.” ...

It was some three weeks later when a car
drove up to the front door of Prior’s Court.
Four men got out. I was one of them. There
were also Detective Inspector Furneaux and
Detective Sergeant Lee. The fourth man was
Mr. Osborne, who could hardly contain his
delight at being one of the party.

“I feel it’s a privilege. A great privilege,
though I don’t quite understand ———”’

But nobody was entering into explanations
at this moment.

If Venables was surprised at our visit, he did
not show it. His manner was courteous in the
extreme. I thought again, as he wheeled his
chair a little back so as to widen the circle
round him, what a very distinctive appearance
the man had. The Adam’s apple moving up
and down between the wings of his old-
fashioned collar, the haggard profile with its
curved nose like a bird of prey.

“Nice to see you again, Easterbrook. And
what can I do for you, Detective Inspector?”

Furneaux was very quiet, very suave.
“There is a matter on which we think you
might be able to assist us, Mr. Venables.”

“That has a rather familar ring, does it not?
In what way do you think I can assist you?”

“On October seventh a parish priest of the
name of Father Gorman was murdered in
West Street, Paddington. I have been given to
understand that you were in the neighborhood
at that time—between seven-forty-five and
eight-fifteen in the evening—and you may
have seen something that may have a bearing
on the matter.”

“Was I really in the neighborhood at that
time? Do you know, I doubt it, I very much
doubt it. As far as I can recall, I have never
been in that particular district of London.”

“Father Gorman had been called out on
that particular foggy evening to the deathbed
of a woman nearby. She had become en-
tangled with a criminal organization which
specialized in the removal of unwanted per-
sons—for a substantial fee, naturally.”

“Hardly a new idea,” murmured Venables.

“Ah, but there were some novel features
about this particular organization. To begin
with, the removals were ostensibly brought
about by stimulating what might be referred
to as a ‘death wish,’ said to be present in
everyone ——”

“Come now. Come now. Do you really be-
lieve that? How very unlike our hardheaded
police force!”

One woman’s query: “When the advertise-
ment reads ‘Waltz-length nightgowns’ I can’t
help wondering, Who are these hundreds of
women who waltz in their nightgowns ?”

A number of parents raised eyebrows when
they read the following in a summer newssheet
published by their young teeners: “Be sure to
notify us if you change your dame or address.”

Grandmother used to say, “Carry a child
‘on chips’ and eventually he’ll splinter your
heart.”

International manners affect women differ-
ently. When a foreigner bends over her hand
to kiss it, one woman may tingle to her finger-
tips, another may be mildly amused, while a
third must squelch the desire to stroke the
back of his head.

From the local press: “Wanted! Woman to
run house out of town.”

“The headquarters of this organization are
said to be a place called the ‘Pale Horse.’ ”’

“Ah, now I begin to understand. So that is
what brings you to our pleasant rural neigh-
borhood; my friend Thyrza Grey, and her
nonsense! You really believe that Thyrza
spouts some highfalutin nonsense, Sybil
throws a trance, and Bella does black magic,
and as a result somebody dies?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Venables—the cause of death
is simpler than that.’”’ He paused a moment.
“The cause is thallium poisoning.”

“Thallium.” Mr. Venables frowned. “TI
don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

““No? Used extensively as rat poison, occa-
sionally as a depilatory for children with ring-
worm. Can be obtained quite easily. Inci-
dentally, there’s a packet of it tucked away in
a corner of your potting shed.”

Venables became slightly excited. ‘““Some-
one must have put it there. I know nothing
about it! Nothing at all.”

“Is that so? You’re a man of some wealth,
aren’t you, Mr. Venables?”

“What has that got to do with what we are
talking about?”

“Would you like to hear just how this little
racket was worked?”

“You are certainly determined to tell me.”

“It’s very well organized. Financial details
are arranged by a debarred solicitor called Mr.
Bradley. Prospective clients visit him and do
business. That is to say, there is a bet on
whether someone will die within a stated
period. ... Simple, isn’t it?

“The client next visits the Pale Horse. A
show is put on by Miss Thyrza Grey and her
friends, which usually impresses him in the
way it is meant to do.

“Now for the simple facts behind the scenes.

“Certain women, bona fide employees of
one of the many consumer-research concerns,
are detailed to canvass a particular neighbor-
hood with a questionnaire. ‘What bread do
you prefer? What toilet articles and cosmetics ?
What laxative, tonics, sedatives, indigestion
mixtures?’ People nowadays are conditioned
to answering quizzes. They seldom object.

nd now to—the last step. Simple, bold,
successful! The only action performed by the
originator of the scheme in person. He may be
wearing a mansion-flat-porter’s uniform, he
may be the man calling to read the gas or the
electric meter. He may be a plumber, or an
electrician, or a workman of some kind.
Whatever role he is playing, his real object is
simple—the substitution of a preparation he
brings with him for a similar article which he
knows (by reason of the C.R.C. question-
naire) that his victim uses. Having accom-
plished it, he leaves, and is not seen in that
neighborhood again.

“And for a few days perhaps nothing hap-
pens. But sooner or later the victim displays
symptoms of illness. A doctor is called in, but
has no reason to suspect anything out of the
ordinary. He may question what food or
drink the patient has taken, but he is unlikely
to suspect the ordinary proprietary article that
the patient has taken for years.

“And you see the beauty of the scheme, Mr.
Venables? The only person who knows what
the head of the organization actually does is the
head of the organization himself. There is no
one to give him away.”

“So how do you know so much?” demanded
Mr. Venables pleasantly.

““When we have suspicions of a certain per-
son, there are ways of making sure.”

“Indeed? Such as?”

“Recognition is an interesting thing, Mr.
Venables. For instance, this gentleman here,
Mr. Osborne, is willing to swear he saw you
following Father Gorman in Barton Street on
the night of the seventh of October about
eight o’clock.”’

“And I did see you!”” Mr. Osborne leaned
forward, twitching with excitement. “I de-
scribed you—described you exactly!”

“Rather too exactly, perhaps,” said Fur-
neaux. ““Because you didn’t see Mr. Venables
that night when you were standing outside
the doorway of your shop. You weren't stand-
ing there at all. You were across the street
yourself—following Father Gorman until he
turned into West Street, and you came up with
him and killed him.”

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Mr. Zachariah Osborne said, “What?” It
might have been ludicrous. It was ludicrous!
The dropped jaw. The staring eyes.

“Tet me introduce you, Mr. Venables, to
Mr. Zachariah Osborne, pharmacist, late of
Barton Street, Paddington. You'll feel a per-
sonal interest in him when J tell you that Mr.
Osborne, who has been under observation for
some time, was unwise enough to plant a
packet of thallium salts in your potting shed.
Not knowing of your disability, he’d amused
himself by casting you as the villain of the
piece; and being a very obstinate, as well as a
very stupid, man, he refused to admit he’d
made a bloomer.”

“Stupid? You dare to call me stupid? If
you knew—if you’d any idea what I’ve done—
what I can do—I ———” Osborne shook and
spluttered with rage.

“You shouldn’t have tried to be so clever,
you know,” Furneaux said _ reprovingly.
“Why, if you’d just sat back in that shop of
yours, and let well alone, 1 shouldn’t be here
now, warning you, as it’s my duty to do, that
anything you say will be taken downand it

It was then that Mr. Osborne began to
scream. . .

“Took here, Furneaux, there are lots of
things I want to know.”

The formalities over, I had got Furneaux to
myself. We were sitting together with two
large tankards of beer opposite us.

“Yes, Mr. Easterbrook? I gather it was a
surprise to you.”

“Tt certainly was,” I told him. ““My mind
was set on Venables. You never gave me the
least hint.”

“T couldn’t afford to give hints, Mr. Easter-
brook. You have to play these things close to
your chest. They’re tricky. The truth is we
hadn’t a lot to go on. That’s why we had to
stage the show in the way we did with Ven-
ables’s co-operation. We had to lead Osborne
right up the garden path and then turn on him
suddenly and hope to break him down. And
it worked.”

“So Venables was in on the performance
you put on,” I said. “Did he like the idea of
co-operating?”

“It amused him, I think,” said Furneaux.
“Besides, he was impertinent enough to say
that one good turn deserves another.”

**And what did he mean by that cryptic re-
mark?”

“Well, I shouldn’t be telling you this,” said
Furneaux. “There was a big outbreak of bank
robberies about eight years ago. The raids
were cleverly planned by someone who took
no part in the actual operation. That man got
away with a lot of money. We may have had
our suspicions who it was, but we couldn’t
prove it. He was a clever crook, but he wasn’t
a murderer. No lives were lost.”

My mind went back to Zachariah Osborne.
“Did you always suspect Osborne?” I asked.
“Right from the beginning?”

Wa. straightway he started telling lies.
We asked for anyone who'd seen Father Gor-
man that night to communicate with us. Mr.
Osborne communicated and the statement he
made was a palpable lie. He’d seen a man
following Father Gorman and he described
the features of that man, but he couldn’t pos-
sibly have seen him across the street on a foggy
night. An aquiline nose in profile he might
have seen, but not an Adam’s apple. That was
going too far. Of course that lie might have
been innocent enough. Mr. Osborne might
just want to make himself important. Lots of
people are like that. But it made me focus my
attention on Mr. Osborne, and he was really
rather a curious person. At once he started to
tell me a lot about himself. Very unwise of
him. He gave me a picture of someone who
had always wanted to be more important
than he was.

“But to go back. Osborne’s description of
the man he had seen that night was interesting.
It was so obviously a description of a real
person whom he had at one time seen. I’d say
that he noticed Venables sitting in his car one
day in Bournemouth and was struck by his
appearance. If he’d seen him that way, he
wouldn’t realize the man was a cripple. When
he did find that out, he hadn’t the sense to
shut up. That was his vanity. Typical criminal’s
vanity. Like a fool, he stuck to his guns and

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL |
:
7

put forward all sorts of preposterous theories.
I had a very interesting visit to him at his
bungalow in Bournemouth. The name of it
ought to have given the show away. Everest.
That was the kind of cheap joke that he en-
joyed. Ever rest. He did give people eternal
rest on payment of a suitable fee. It was a
wonderful idea; one’s got to hand him that.
The whole setup was clever. Bradley in Bir-
mingham, Thyrza Grey holding her séances
in Much Deeping. And who was to suspect
Mr. Osborne, who had no connection with |
Thyrza Grey, no connection with Bradley and
Birmingham, no connection with the victim?
The actual mechanics of the thing was child’s
play to a pharmacist. As I say, if only Mr.
Osborne had had the sense to keep quiet.”

Both Furneaux and I were silent for some
minutes while I contemplated the strange
creature that was Zachariah Osborne. *

“One imagines a mastermind,” I said, “age
some grand and sinister figure of evil.”

Furneaux shook his head. “‘It’s not like that
at all,” he said. “Evil is not something super- _
human, it’s something /ess than human. Your
criminal is someone who wants to be impor-
tant, but who never will be important, because |
he’ll always be less than a man.” ...

At Much Deeping everything was refresh-
ingly normal.

Rhoda was busy doctoring dogs. She looked
up as I came in and asked me if I would like
to assist. I refused and asked where Ginger
was.

““She’s gone over to the Pale Horse,” Rhoda
told me. }

“She'll
yet ——” |

‘How you fuss, Mark. Ginger’s all right. }
What’s the matter with you?”

overtire herself! She’s not fit

The real measure of our wealth is how
much we should be worth if we lost our
money. J. H. JOWETT |

I did not reply, but set out for the Pale}
Horse. i
Just before I got there I met Mrs. Dane-
Calthrop, the vicar’s wife. She greeted me en-j)
thusiastically. “Let’s go into the Pale Horse}*
and find Ginger.” q
“What’s she doing there?”
“Cleaning up something.”
We.went in through the low doorway. There
was a strong smell of turpentine. Ginger wa
busy with rags and bottles. She looked up as
we entered. She was still very pale and thin,)
a scarf wound round her head where the hair).
had not yet grown, a ghost of her former self.

“Look!” she said triumphantly. She indi-)
cated the old inn sign on which she was,
working.

The grime of years removed, the figure of
the rider on the horse was plainly discernible’
a grinning skeleton with gleaming bones.

Mrs. Dane-Calthrop’s voice, deep anc
sonorous, spoke behind me: "

“Revelation, Chapter six, verse eight. Andi)
looked, and behold a pale horse: and his nam
that sat on him was Death, and Hell followeé
with him.” |

We were silent for a moment or two, ant
then Mrs. Dane-Calthrop, who was not ont
to be afraid of anticlimax, said, “I must g¢
now. Mothers’ meeting.”” She paused in th
doorway, nodded at Ginger, and said un
expectedly, ““You’ll make a good mother.” ©

For some reason Ginger blushed cums

“Ginger,” I said, “‘will you?”

“Will I what? Make a good mother?” 4

“You know what I mean.” ’

“Perhaps. But I’d prefer a firm offer.”

I made her a firm offer.

After an interlude, Ginger demanded, “Ar
you quite sure you don’t want to marry thé
Hermia creature?”

“Good heavens!” I said. “I quite forgot.
I took a letter from my pocket. “This cam
three days ago, asking me if I’d come to th
Old Vic with her to see Love’s Labour’s Lost.

Ginger took the letter out of my hand an
tore it up. “If you want to go to the Old V)
in future,” she said firmly, “you'll go with me.

\PRIL, 1962

TOUCH AND GO

SONTINUED FROM PAGE 67

3ut, as a special concession, because my
yrothers said they needed me, I was permitted
o play touch football.

“T suppose’”’—mother sighed—“‘you’ll out-
row it by yourself when the right time
omes.””

Dave and John, the two oldest brothers,
vere on the Fairhill Heights football team,
ind I worked out with them all spring and
ummer. I held the family record, having put
inety-eight out of a hundred passes through
he old tire we’d hung on the oak tree in the
yackyard, though of course they let me stand
| little closer.

“How did I ever spawn such a brood?” my
ather pondered aloud as he watched us run
vind sprints and do push-ups one day when
1e came home earlier than usual. My father is
_lawyer, and though he played some basket-
all in high school, he gave up sports in college
0 concentrate on graduating cum laude.

He stood watching for a little while and
hen went indoors. When I came in to shower
e took me aside and said, “I’m not complain-
qg about the other things, but I draw the line
tany more weight lifting for you, sis.”

The summer after I graduated from eighth
rade and was ready to go on to Fairhill
feights High, mother got very busy shop-
ing, dragging me along and making me try on
> many dresses that I finally told her I felt
lint.

-“That’s a step in the right direction,”
other said severely. ‘I only wish you looked
.” She turned to the saleslady. ‘““Haven’t you
»mething with little cap sleeves? Something
» hide all those muscles?”

Mother kept advising me about how to get
‘ong with boys in high school. ““Remember
» smile a lot. Ask them questions. Praise
‘em. If they talk about sports, pretend you
on’t know a thing. There are times when a
tle fib is perfectly allowable.”

I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was
yout. I'd been getting along with six boys
| my life and they seemed to like me well
‘ough. But since it made mother happy, I
re the ruffled blouses and silly scarves she
bught me, though I thought any boy worth
's salt wouldn’t be fooled by tricks like these.
And of course they weren’t. Sometimes they
/ked me for batting averages, or for help with
algebra problem, but they never asked me
'r dates. It didn’t bother me at all. Boys were
| novelty, and if it was a dancing partner I
feded I knew where I could find six of them.
1 had more trouble getting along with the
tls. They were always giggling and acting
iysterious, and if I asked them what they
bre whispering about, one would give a little
eam and say, “Oh, Mary Liz! Honestly!”
sever did find out what the joke was.

Not that the girls were unfriendly. Two or
fee usually walked homg_.with me and
tyed and talked to my brothers, or danced
h them or helped them make popcorn.
ther was gratified at the number of my girl
nds.

Vinen the first semester ended in January
ii the honors were passed out, I began to
Vice a boy named Chuck Fuller. He beat me
.07 for Freshman High Scholastic, which
fully expected to win. He was short, shy

or stumbled against a desk on his way to
blackboard, the girls thought it was fun-
- than if it happened to anyone else. Chuck
n't date or attend school dances. In fact,
seemed to do nothing but study.

‘Vith the start of the new semester, our
nce teacher assigned “A Collection of
resentative Botanical Specimens from the
le Roaring River Valley” to Chuck and me
team project. As the weather grew warmer
went specimen hunting twice a week.
sugh I’d been dreading these expeditions,
’ turned out to be exciting. Chuck, who
ined to be a doctor, knew all about the
licinal properties of things like witch
1 and sassafras.

found myself thinking about Chuck a lot.
tasn’t that I was crazy about him or any-
s like that, I finally assured myself; he

simply held the charm of the unknown. After
all, he was the first boy I ever knew who didn’t
talk about sports to me.

When our project was finished I invited
Chuck to come over to our house anytime.
He never did, not even once; and when we
passed each other in the halls it was as if we’d
never stripped off birch bark together or
bogged down side by side while searching for
Dutchman’s-breeches.

I saw him just twice that summer, when I
happened to walk past his house. Once he
was chinning himself on the crossbar of his
little sister’s swing set and couldn’t speak, and
the other time he was watching his shadow on

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the garage wall as he stood flexing his biceps,
and didn’t see me.

Then our family went to the lake and when
we got home mother started in again on
clothes. ““You’ll be invited to Cotillion this
fall,’ she said, “and you’re going to need a
really lovely dress.”

““Nobody will ask me, and I won’t go with-
out a date.”

“Oh, we’ll worry about that later,’’ mother
said airily, but I could see she wasn’t half so
confident as she pretended to be. She bought
me somenew skirts and sweaters because, ““ Now
you're beginning to go in and out in the right
places, we can do without the ruffles.”

When school started in the fall, Chuck and
I were among those assigned to a new ac
celerated course, which meant we had the
same homeroom and most subjects together.
Going from geometry to Latin one day I no-
ticed that Chuck was limping badly. I caught
up with him and asked him what was wrong.

“lm hoping to make the football squad
this year,’’ he explained proudly. ‘““The only
problem is that I’m not so big as some of the
fellows and I seem to get hurt a lot.”

“You are skinny,” I agreed, “although you
must have grown a foot since last year. Why
don’t you work out with the weights? It might
help.”

“I stepped off fit for a shopping spree,”

says Mrs. Earl Calkins. “My Boeing flight
was so quiet and relaxing I felt rested
when I arrived.”

“Just one bottle —in 2,400 miles,” says
Mrs. Karen Parsons. “Actually, the flight
was so smooth my little daughter slept
almost all the way.”

“Only one drawback. The trip was such
fun it was much too short,” says Mrs.
Nola Kirkpatrick. “Before I realized it,
we were half way across the country!”

“Tt’s the only way to travel with children,”
says Mrs. Ann Cockburn. “Our Boeing
jet traveled so smoothly and arrived so
soon, Kim didn’t fuss at all!”

LONG-RANGE 7O7 - MEOLE

1 - RAN <

t
}
|
1
t

son mysterious reason, he seemed

ol after that. I put him out of my

ind completely for three days. Then we got

our Latin test papers back and the whole

was shocked C huc *k’s D. I was right

nd him as we went out the door and I
asked, “What happened?”

‘TI just didn’t feel like studying for it, that’s

‘Are you sick or something?”

“I’m sick, all right. I was cut from the foot-
ball squad.”

I could guess how terrible he must feel, al-
though I’d never personally known a boy who
was cut from the squad.

“Maybe I could help, Chuck,” I offered.
“I’ve got three brothers on the team. I'll ask
them to talk to the coach, if you want me to.”

For a second he brightened, but then shook
his head hopelessly.

“Tf all six of your brothers spoke for me, it
wouldn’t help. The coach said I was too light
to play anything but quarterback, and that
I'd have to learn to pass and handle the bail
better if I hope to make the squad next year.”

*‘But that’s what a coach is supposed to do!
Teach you those things, I mean.’

“Not at Fairhill. He told me he was sorry,
but all he had time to do was turn ou, a win-
ning team.”

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I knew what he meant. Fairhill has a won-
derful Boosters Club, but they get discouraged
if we have two losing seasons in a row.

Impulsively, I said, “I'd be glad to teach
you!”

Chuck gave me a look. “I’m not interested
in the Lipstick League,” he replied and walked
away.

Too astonished and hurt to think of an an-
swer, I decided he probably deserved being
cut. But that evening, after working out with
my little brothers and watching young Billy
kick five field goals out of seven, I began to
feel sorry for Chuck. He’d never had a
chance. Personally, I thought he ought to
stick to his doctoring and his sassafras; but if
playing football was what he wanted, I knew
of a way to help him.

I took my idea to Dave, the oldest and big-
gest of my brothers, and the one with the soft-
est heart. He was enthusiastic. He wanted to
be a coach when he finished college and my
plan would give him practice. On the bulletin
board next day I posted our invitation to all
boys interested in forming a touch-football
team to meet at the athletic field on Sunday.
It was casting a huge net for one little fish.

Chuck ‘was caught, of course. Dave and
John divided the boys into teams, ran them
through warm-up exercises and various tech-
niques, often using me to illustrate their
points. I was careful not to glance at Chuck.
When practice was over, Dave gathered us all
in a circle. We were to be called the Untouch-
ables, and he hoped the name suited because
he had already entered us in the City League.

“But we’ve got one big problem,” Dave
declared. “John and I have varsity practice.
We'll work with you every Sunday until your
season opens, when you’ll play league games
that day, and three nights a week as long as it
stays light. The other two nights you'll be
coached by our sister. Stand up, Mary Liz!”

| he silence was mutinous for a minute.
Then a boy named Bill Everett spoke up. “A
girl for a coach?”

We'll list her as a member of the team.
She can even play, according to league rules,
but naturally we won’t use her.’’ Dave paused,
looking very stern. ‘‘Forget she’s a girl, that’s
all. We've taught her everything she knows,
and it’s plenty. Oh, and one last word. I'll
personally punch anybody in the nose who
gives her a bad time!”’

I was glad of Dave’s guaranty when I had
to handle practice for the first time. I read out
his written instructions and the boys obeyed
without a murmur.

At the close of practice that day, Chuck
came up to me. “Mary Liz, is that offer still
good? I mean, about teaching me some foot-
ball?’

I guessed it was, I replied. For some reason
I really had no desire to play football with
Chuck, but I agreed to work with him at his
house after school on those days when prac-
tice was in the evening.

The first time I went, his mother came out
on the back porch.

“What are you two youngsters going to
do?” she asked pleasantly.

“Well, I thought we ought to start with the
belly series,” I began. I would have explained
more fully, but she gave me a startled look,
said something was burning and went back in
the house. I never saw her again, to speak to,
although I often noticed her shadow behind
the kitchen curtains. But Chuck’s little sister
Peggy was always there, sitting on the porch
steps watching us. And every day when I left,
she would shout:

“Are you a girl or a boy?”’

The City League gave us an eight-game
schedule. Four Sundays running, Dave, John
and | and a few faithful parents watched our
boys win against teams older and more experi-
enced than the Untouchables. It looked as if
we were going to be unbeatable, Dave exulted
proudly

[his was the time mother chose to inter-
fer ( dinner one night she sat pale and si-
lenta nartyr, until dad finally said:

w catastrophe today, dear?”

Edmund,” she burst out, “Mary Elizabeth
rately deceived us! I discovered at
bridge club today that she’s on the football

has delit

team!

| 2) a. OS - S -

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Dad raised his eyebrows. “Congratulations,
sis. Tell me, how do you manage in the locker
room?”

“Edmund!” warned mother.

*“We may as well face biological facts, dear.
And it was you who wanted her to meet some
nice boys, you know. You'll have to admit she:
went to the right place to find them.”

Mother’s face was red and she looked ready
to cry when Dave leaped into the breach and
explained that it was only a touch team;
locker rooms were not involved. John added
that I was really the assistant coach and never
played in public.

“You’d hardly know she was a girl,”’ he as-
sured mother, “in her old jeans and a swea
shirt.”

“Touch football is very chic right now,’
Pete chimed in. “It's the Kennedy _
favorite game, mom.’

Slightly mollified, mother gave dad permis.
sion to monitor the game when the Untouch:
ables played the next Sunday. He seemed t
enjoy it in a quizzical kind of way, was happy

IT RAINS
EVERYTHING

By JOHN V. HICKS

It rains potatoes, grass, animals

And catalogs. It rains everything.

Who would think all those sounds on
our roof

Are shoes, shirts, bicycle tires and

A yellow muffler? | remember my
father

Looking out of the window at five-
thirty

The last morning snow was on the |
ground

And saying, ‘‘!| smell a summer's |
rain, Jeremy,

The sky has a tilled look, we've got

it made
This year, mark my words, boy, she'll 9
rain
Everything from calves to seat
covers.”

My father can tell about the rain.

when we won, and suggested that I wear a li}
tle lipstick next time—simply to prevent cha
ping, of course. i

“There’s something familiar about yo!
quarterback Chuck’s movements.’ t

“ve been helping him some, dad. Hey!
good, isn’t he?”

Dad nodded thoughtfully. ‘It wouldn’t su}
prise me if he made the varsity next yes
Then where will you be, Pygmalion?” i

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I can get a jay’
leading cheers,” I replied, suddenly dispirite

I honestly thought dad was on my si€
But that night at dinner, after a conferen
with mother, he shocked us all by saying:

““Mary Elizabeth has an invitation to t))%
Thanksgiving Cotillion. Now I understa/}'
that girls may attend without escorts, ty}
that’s not what we want for sis, is it?” J

There was a nervous chorus of agreeme

“Only it’s going to be a little tough, dag]
Dave said. “We'll have to find some fell”
from another school where people don’t knvy*
her.” a8)

*‘And someone we don’t care about keepi
for a friend,” John added. RL

Dad folded the tips of his fingers together}!
a judicial attitude.

“Would you call your sister homely?” 4&
inquired. te

They all turned to stare, even the gr
school ones, as though they had never seen
before.

“Her face isn’t bad, and she could w
some of that stuff other girls put on,” P
remarked, as if surprised. i

Dave said, ‘The ponytail has got to 1%
Maybe curls would help.” be

Neeee eee ee a

.PRIL, 1962

“With a dress on, she might get
y,” John chimed in.

“That’s settled, then,” dad said,
miling oddly. “I want all arrange-
jents completed this week, and re-
yember to get a tall one.”

All sorts of candidates were pro-
osed, and rejected, before Dave
1ought of Ron Whitehall. Ron’s
umily had been our neighbors until
rey moved to the other end of town.
le played basketball, so he was
ound to be tall. I gave in and let Dave
iake the delicate offer over the tele-
hone. Ron accepted.

Mother went into action at once.

ne rushed me downtown to buy a
ew dress, gold slippers and even a
air of sparkling earrings. Next she
ok me to her favorite beauty opera-
wr, where she had my hair cut shorter
nd swished up into something they
old me was a French twist.

' “But, mother,” I protested wearily,
he dance isn’t until Thanksgiving!”
'“You’ll need time to get accus-
med to looking pretty. Remember, I
yn’t want you playing football in
at hairdo.”

‘I sighed. ‘*The boys have just about
itgrown me, anyway.”

That Chuck had was certain. The
irsity coach himself came to see us
n our next two games, and Dave
ld me later he was impressed with
nuck. The more I thought of it, the
tter | understood what dad meant
jen he called me Pygmalion.

' 1 was on the bench cheering wildly,
y hair hidden under a scarf, when
> won our last game and the cham-
ynship of the South Side. Now we
d to play the North Side a three-
/me series for the city title.

Chuck was regularly walking with
» between classes. but it wasn’t ex-
bly the way I’d imagined. He always
<ed me to diagram plays for him.
ithe Thursday before the first of the
iy-off games, he wanted me to come
his house after school for extra
ictice. Recalling my promise to
pther, I told him I had homework to
ke up.

)‘I’m sorry, Chuck.”

‘That’s all right,” he said awk-
rdly. “I owe you an awful lot,
ry Liz. I wish there was something
ould do to show my appreciation.”
You could have asked me to the
tillion, | thought, but I only said, “I
s glad to help. I’m counting on you
win for us next Sunday.”

Ne lost that first game by one touch-
wn. We’d never been in real com-
ition before on a muddy gridiron.
» lost the ball three times on fum-
is, and although Chuck played a
nderful game, we never could make
for those errors.

efore we ran out onto North’s
id for the second game of the series,
we gave us all a wonderful, in-
‘ing lecture. I was listening hard
h the rest of the team when all of
udden I started to cry. Dave threw
a look of utter disgust.
.cried all through the first half, sit-
i in the car. But I had to know who
} Winning, so finally I washed my
p in a drinking fountain and took
place on the bench. Everyone ig-
i” me until the fourth quarter,
m Chuck threw the little screen
Ps I'd taught him and hit Jackie
“Wiker for a touchdown. John hugged
@ and Dave clapped me on the
Shulder so hard I buckled down onto
& bench. I was so excited I didn’t
&1 notice that my scarf had slipped
Siuntil the game ended and one of
Nth’s players sneered as he walked
De:
Look; guys; they’ve got a dame on
thr team. Hey, sister "Wannarassle?”
efore anyone could intervene,
©ick punched him hard. Someone

119
hit Chuck and started a chain reaction.-I had have the use of the university stadium and play can’t be invited again, and you wouldn’t want me
time, while the officials and spectators broke our final game at night. to tell them you’re playing football instead?”
up the fight, to realize that mother may have “The day after Thanksgiving,” Dave exulted. “Oh, mother!” Soh
been right. “Next year they’re going to call it the Touch I looked to Dave for support, but he looked

Breakfast next morning was gloomy. No one _ Bowl.” away. John shrugged. Pete, the family humorist,
dared mention the fight on account of mother. “Thank heaven!” mother exclaimed. “Now just grinned. ‘?
When the telephone rang, we all sat frankly lis- Mary Liz won’t have to be there.” Spade appealed frantically, ““my honor! My
tening w hile Dave carried on a long conversation “Of course I'll be there! I’m a member of the duty tothe team! As alawyer, you must see B
with a City League official. He hung up and told team. I’d die if I couldn’t go!” He sighed. “Better make it a clean break, sis.”
us that our series had aroused such interest and Mother smiled. “It’s Cotillion night, Mary There was a long silence, then Dave inquired

the demand for tickets was so great, we were to Elizabeth. If you’re absent without excuse you gently, “Shall I tell the boys, or will you?”

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120

“T will,’ I sobbed. “Oh, I hate you all!’ I
scrambled from my chair and ran upstairs
and locked my door, but not before I heard
mother say in a Satisfied way, “Girls are so
emotional.”

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving was
my last day with the team. Somehow I got
through practice, but every time one of the
boys looked over at me trustingly and asked,
“How was that, coach?’’ I choked up.

We had a pep meeting when we finished.
Then Dave and John obligingly said they had
to go, but the assistant coach had a word to
say to the team.

“Men,” I said, sniffling, “I feel like a traitor.
I can’t come to the game Friday. My family is
making me go to Cotillion.”

Nobody said anything. I wished that I
had a handkerchief; sniffing was not doing
the job.

“Tt isn’t that I wouldn’t give an arm to be
there and see you win!” I cried. “I think you're
just wonderful. Oh, I’m so ashamed ;.I’m going
to cry again.”

Somebody handed me the towel we were
using to wipe off the ball that damp day. I
thought Chuck looked disgusted. I tried to pull
myself together.

“T guess youre all glad to be rid of me,”
I said.

Bill Everett cleared his throat. “Mary Liz,
we’re proud to have you as a coach,” he
said. “But we understand that with girls,
dancing and things are more important. We
hope you have a good time, and we'll win for
you if it kills us.”

I ran all the way home, crying into the dirty
towel, told mother I could not eat a morsel of
food, and shut myself in my room. When
everyone was in bed, dad sneaked up with a
piece of pumpkin pie which I ate only because
I hated to hurt his feelings.

Thanksgiving Day passed somehow. I didn’t
even have the heart to argue, but simply ate my
turkey in silent scorn. Mother was not very
friendly either. She warned, “Be ready at nine
in the morning. I’ve got Janice, at the beauty
shop, promised for practically the whole day.”

‘As if my hair mattered, at a time like this!”
I said.

They all regarded me strangely. Unable to
bear their collectively solemn gaze another
second, I left the table and ran upstairs. It was
getting to be a habit, I thought gloomily as I
lay on my bed trying to decide whether my
room might be called a prison or a refuge.

Wat I went through at the beauty shop is
better left untold. The author of our World
History textbook who deplored the Inquisition
would have had his eyes opened if he’d been
there.

It was late afternoon when mother came
to pick me up, giving little cries as though
overwhelmed.

“It’s your masterpiece, Janice!’’ she ex-
claimed. She paid the bill and pushed more
dollars into Janice’s hand.

“T can’t take it, Mrs. Denny,” Janice said,
returning the money. “*Mary Liz has promised
to teach Billy how to play football. His father
died in Korea, you know, and it’s hard for a
woman to bring up a boy all alone.”

Mother looked sick, but somehow we got
out of there and home, where a special dinner
was waiting for me, a scrap of this and that,
like the one Mammy fed Scarlett O’Hara be-
fore the barbecue. I managed to get myself
dressed, in spite of mother’s fumbling help.
When I was ready I started down the stairs,
only to have mother order me back to my
room.

“You don’t want to seem overeager,”
warned.

she

“Overeager! You mean like Marie An-
toinette running up the steps to the guillo-
tine!”’ I moaned.

The bell tolled for me at last. I peered over
the stair railing and saw a tall, redheaded boy
speaking politely to mother. At least I needn’t
be ashamed to be seen with him, I thought, but
my stomach felt hollow when I remembered

that, just about now, Chuck and the other boys
would be running out onto the field.

Mother introduced us, pinned Ron’s flowers
on me and, unexpectedly, kissed me good-bye.
Outside in the car Ron’s father sat behind the
wheel, listening to a football game on the

radio. I knew I should begin asking Ron ques-
tions about his favorite sport, favorite hobby,
and so on, but I couldn’t help listening to the
game, and before we reached the club Mr.
Whitehall and I were having a good time de-
ciding what play would come next.

We discharged our duty to the chaperons,
and Ron managed to find seats for us. We
danced each dance together, partly because
Ron didn’t know anyone else and partly be-
cause no one cut in on me. If you sat down for
a minute, the chaperons brought over the most
unattractive couple they could find and made
you exchange dances with them, so we clung
together like a couple shipwrecked among a
savage tribe.

At intermission Ron got us both a glass
of punch.

ANOTHER
EVE

By MARY BILLINGS

No word of peacocks wearing
silver chains

In cypress-bordered gardens by
the sea—

The devil spoke no word of olive
groves,

Or pomegranates, when he
tempted me.

His honeyed speech concerned a
small, gray house

With lilac bushes reaching to the
eaves.

Along a railing on the seaward
side,

Woodbine hangs out its tattered,
scarlet sleeves.

He said that | could watch the
twilight come

Up from the sea, to fill the quiet
rooms—

So quiet | could hear the wind-
blown grass :

Brushing the walls, outside, with
bending brooms.

The devil knows the house that
| must share—

A pillared house with portico and
dome,

Where | can never watch the tide
streaks curl,

Or one white sail, before the wind,
come home.

“Are you always so quiet?” he asked, gulp-
ing out of his paper cup.

I shrugged.

“What is your favorite hobby ?”’ he queried.

“Well ——” I began, and was just about to
tell him about my team when the loudspeaker
came on with a crackling sound and an-
nounced: “Telephone for Miss Mary Elizabeth
Denny.”

It was mother. She sounded so shaken up I
was frightened. “Don’t do it, Mary Elizabeth!
They’re sending John to pick you up. They
came here to get your jeans and sweat shirt.”

“What happened?”

“Something. Oh, I don’t know. They want
you to play tonight!”

I would have asked her to put dad on, but
just then I caught sight of John and Pete com-
ing through the foyer, John carrying a roll of
clothing under one arm.

“John! What happened?”

“Chuck ran into somebody’s elbow; they
took him to the doctor to get some stitches in
his forehead.”

“Everett?”

“He’s in there now,” John told me, ‘‘but
he can’t see. We forgot that the lights would
shine on his glasses. We’re in the lead, but

it’s only three points. You’ve got to come,
Mary Liz!”

I nodded, took the bundle from John and
ran into the powder room. Some girls who
were combing their hair stared at me in
amazement as I stripped off my chiffon dress
and other things and stepped into my jeans. I
came out carrying everything rolled in a wad,
my necklace of pearls and my stockings stuffed
into my gold slippers for safety. As I raced
past the round table where the chaperons were
sitting, I heard a man say:

“Don’t look now, but I could swear I saw
Cinderella leaving the ball.”

I didn’t stop to locate Ron. John shoved me
into the car and briefed me quickly on what
had happened, and the strategy that Dave
had planned for the second half. We reached
the stadium when the third quarter was five
minutes gone.

“Where have you been?” Dave yelled when
he saw us. “Go on in, Mary Liz. Try twelve
first, to pull them in, then twenty-four.”

I joined the huddle breathlessly. One of the
boys on the North team whistled.

‘Pass the lipstick, Mabel,” they jeered as we
lined up. “A touch of hair spray, please,

Eloise!

iF made me mad. I forgot everything
mother had taught me about being ladylike. I
ran twelve, for a small gain, then faked a
handoff and threw a down-and-outer to
Jackie Walker, who went all the way for a
touchdown. They got the ball on our kickoff
and tried a long pass that fell into my arms like
a homing pigeon. I ran it back seventy yards
for another score, behind blocking that has
never been equaled in football history. My
boys would have killed, | think, rather than let
the North team touch me. Not even the Ken-
nedys could have beaten us that night.

After it was all over, dad appeared out of
the crowd and said he was taking me home.

“But we were all going to get a hamburger,”
I protested.

“Your mother is a little upset,’ dad con-
fided. “The sooner you make your peace with
her, the better.”

When we got home, I flew into the living
room and gave mother a big hug. “We won!
We're city champions!”

“Your escort and his father were here look-
ing for you,” she said, sitting stiffly as a stone
image. “Mrs. Allison called and told me
you’re expelled from Cotillion for the re-
mainder of the year.”

With that she rose from her chair, burst into
tears and went up to her room. Dad and I
heard the sound of the lock clicking. I ran up
after her and tried to explain through the
door, but she wouldn’t answer me. After a
while, dad and I ate a piece of stale cake and
had a glass of milk and went to bed.

“She'll forget about it in the morning, sis,”
dad said hopefully.

The minute I went into the kitchen next
morning I knew something was wrong. Dad
was burning some round objects in a frying
pan and the boys were lined up solemnly on
the benches in the breakfast alcove.

“T thought I heard mother come down-
stairs,” I said.

“She did,” Dave said. ‘‘She looked at the
newspaper and went right back upstairs.”

He pointed to the society section, filled with
photographs of the Cotillion. I couldn’t see
anything upsetting about that until John pushed
over the sports section. A banner headline
read: QUARTERBACK IN EARRINGS LEADS UN-
TOUCHABLES TO Victory. Underneath was a
picture of me snapped just as I was throwing
the pass to Jackie Walker. It was true; I'd for-
gotten to take off my earrings, because I'd
never worn them before.

Pete cleared his throat. “It’s a good picture.
Makes you look like Liz Taylor.”

We sat silently as dad brought us a platter
covered with dark disks which we felt we
should eat, under the circumstances.

Then Pete remarked, “John, where did you
put that wire that came for Mary”Liz? She
ought to know the Cleveland Browns want her
in the first draft.”

“But I hate to see her push poor old Milt
Plum out of the picture,” Dave said elabo-
rately.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

“I'd take the offer from the Rams,” John
chimed in. “It'd be great, the family living in
oeAR i

Dad was*just seating himself at the end of
the table with a cup of coffee and a piece o
toast. “As far as I’m concerned,” he said with
a reluctant grin, “‘I’d like to see her hold out
for more money. It costs a girl more to pla
football, you know—the beauty shop, and al.
that. And she must have earring insurance.”

We laughed, but the shadow of mother’s
displeasure hung over the table along with the
smoke from dad’s pancakes. The phone rang
and Pete answered and handed it to me.

I listened. Finally I said, “Ill have t
ask... . Dad,” I said, putting a hand over the
receiver, “it’s a woman from the Morning
News. It isn’t a gag. She really wants to inter}
view me, to prove American girls are just asfiq-
as Russians.” |

“Allright, sis. The damage is already done. 9

I told her that after lunch would suit mej
and hung up.

“I’m captain of Fairhill Heights footbal¥
team and nobody ever wanted to interviey}
me,” Dave complained. f

“Try out for the girls’ hockey team,” Pet
advised. ““You may get a nibble.”

Dad was sitting facing the back door. Sud
denly he smiled. “So that old adage about th
better mousetrap is true.””

We all turned and saw the back po
crowded with boys. They streamed in, all
Untouchables except Chuck. Bill Evere
stepped forward solemnly and handed met
football from last night’s game, inscribed wit
all the boys’ names.

“Look out; she’s going to cry again,” mu
mured Jackie Walker.

I would have, too, but the front doorbe
rang just then and I answered it. A florist’s d
liveryman handed me a big green box. | we
opening it when mother stalked down tk
stairs.

“What’s going on in this house?” she i
manded crossly. “I might as well try sleey
ing in the telephone exchange. Where did th
roses come from?”

I handed her the card. It read: “Toa girl ¢
pretty as she is gallant.’’ It was signed “Rona,
Whitehall Sr. and Ron.”

“Well,” breathed mother,
wildered.

The telephone rang again and mother sei at

the hall extension impatiently. Her mouth \
a firm line, but gradually a pleased expressi¢
smoothed out her face. She finished talki
and, taking the reins of the household firm
back into her own hands, removed the box |
roses from my arms.

“That was the Cotillion board. They’ve
considered and want you to keep your me
bership. I said you’d need the weekend
think it over.’’ She smiled at herself in the h |
mirror. “Let them worry a little.” And s

looking i
l
‘
r
|
}

H
i
i
|
|

swept out to the kitchen to find a vase. |

I wandered into the living room and sto.
looking out the back window. About twet
boys were there in our big backyard playi
touch football, some from my team and so
of Dave’s varsity. It would be fun to join the
I thought wistfully. But I had a feeling tha
had played my last football game. |

“Fame is a lonely state,” dad remark |
coming in quietly behind me, “halfway
tween the mortals and the gods. By the wy
sis, there’s a boy sitting on the front i W
wants to speak to you.”

Could dad guess, I wondered, that fal |
served its purpose if the right person was4
pressed? Concealing myself behind the fr¢
door, I caught a glimpse of the back of |
head. 4

“She’s right behind the door! I saw

“Go home, Peggy,’’ Chuck was ureingy
as I came out.

Peggy turned around and spit in one
mother’s urns. Then she dawdled slowly do
the walk, staring at me from time to time 0
one thin shoulder. Is!

_At the curb, she shouted back, “Are yo :B
girl or a boy?” Bihy

I sat down on the top step beside C
“Sometimes” —I sighed— “I’m not comple Hine
sure.’ -

“Tam,” he said, and when he looked at}!
I was too. WP

(

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ATE’S EASTER

By H. W. HICKLER

ate’s Easter hat is pink and
-e. She frowns at it, leaning to-
d the mirror, trying to find the
angle. Light from the bathroom
low edges her skin and illumi-
s her hair. She steps back and
her head. There is something
J and womanly in the Kate that
s back at her. But at twelve she
;much to be critical of in herself.
er twin brother leans against the
way watching her. His amuse-
t is tinged with contempt.
iat a nutty hat,” he says.

Jon’t you like it?” Kate is
king to her own reflection. She
hes the movement of her
th.

‘oo fancy,” Peter says de-
lly, eying her for response.
1, after a moment, “‘I wish I had
n brother!’ he announces to no
n particular.

ite has hardly heard him. She is
ying herself. “‘My mouth’s too

ter laughs. “‘I’ll say!”

e turns in mild annoyance. “I
’t talking to you.” She walks
y past him with a kind of ex-
ated dignity. The reflected
stays in her mind’s vision and
valks down the stairs examin-

ser turns on the sink water with
sessary force. Kate has left his
of backyard games this year.
1e moment he has lost her. Not
the old taunts reach her in the
=e world she has entered with-
im.
Il me about the first dance you
went to,’ Kate says, leaning
to me against the kitchen
er. I know in advance that she
ing at her picture of a royal

unk of how it was, remember-
1e stiff smile of effort on my
che boys suddenly unfamiliar,
their plastered-down hair
ng of apricots; the flat, imper-
odor of floor wax; and the
n, stomach-sinking contest of
arity.

ell,” I began, “I wore a dress
sister’s ——”’

hat did it look like?” Kate
to know eagerly.

ell . . . it was blue—and

“Did it have a big skirt?”

“Sort of big—it had velvet ribbon
around the bottom.”’

“Did you look beautiful?”

I laugh and lean over to hug her.
Do any of us tell all the truth to
children always?

“Not especially,” I say, remem-
bering my awkwardness.

But Kate doesn’t believe me. “‘I’ll
have a gold dress.”’ Her eyes rest un-
seeing on the kitchen cabinets.
““No—turquoise,”’ she decides. She
is trying on her womanhood with
the delicate, graceful motions of the
little girl she still partly is.

“Turquoise,” I say seriously;
“that will be becoming.”

““A roundish neck?” she asks.

But I know it is not a dress design
she seeks from me. She is trying to
discover whether I enjoy my fem-
ininity. It is no longer a matter of
words between us. She watches me
closely as I get ready for a party. It
is not how I put on my lipstick that
absorbs her. She is trying to borrow
a sense of womanhood from me.

“Yes. A round neck,” I say.

Her dreaming eyes gaze at me.
“Why don’t you put on some lip-
stick?”’ she asks.

She has come back to the kitchen
again, to all the small, irritating re-
alities of getting ready for church.
Peter shouts down that he can’t find
a comb. Lisa and Mark are argu-
ing in the living room over the
comics.

Upstairs Freddy awakens and be-
gins to cry. “I'll go get him,”’ Kate
says. Still in her Easter hat, she be-
comes another Kate. She puts away
the dream of Princess. For this mo-
ment she is the baby’s mother.

Something new is being born in
Kate. This is the Easter of her be-
ginning. Something new must be
born in me too. I must be the
woman she is reaching for in herself.
I ponder the plaided, subtle fabric
of womanhood.

Kate comes down the stairs
again, holding Freddy. I go toward
her to take the baby.

“Happy Easter,” I say to his
sleepy, upturned face. But I am
thinking of Kate. “‘Happy Easter,”’
I say again, looking at her.

She smiles gently at me. “It is a
happy Easter,”’ she says. END

Try as we may to pin it on something else,
the chief cause of hyperabundant avoirdu-
pois (or fatness) seems to be food. And
drink. In the picture above, we have hinted
at two possible solutions. We recommend
only one. It is the substitution of Low Cal-
orie Shasta for your customary soft drink.
Low Calorie Shasta tastes darned good,
contains no sugar (thanks to Sucaryl®),
and a full 12-ounce can contains only six
calories. This won’t solve your entire
weight problem (you might have to cut
down on rich desserts) but it surely helps.

GINGER

Powder
Room
looks so
pretty in
your
Powder

Room

FIC COAST PAPER MILLS. BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON
N OF PUGET SOUND PULP AND TIMBER COMPANY

KATE’S EASTER

Kate’s Easter hat is pink and
white. She frowns at it, leaning to-
ward the mirror, trying to find the
pest angle. Light from the bathroom
window edges her skin and illumi-
nates her hair. She steps back and
ifts her head. There is something
‘oyal and womanly in the Kate that
kazes back at her. But at twelve she
inds much to be critical of in herself.

Her twin brother leans against the
loorway watching her. His amuse-
nent is tinged with contempt.
What a nutty hat,” he says.

“Don’t you like it?” Kate is
peaking to her own reflection. She
vatches the movement of her
nouth.

“Too fancy,” Peter says de-
idedly, eying her for response.
hen, after a moment, “I wish I had
| twin brother!” he announces to no
ne in particular.

Kate has hardly heard him. She is
ltudying herself. ‘My mouth’s too
hig.”

| Peter laughs. “T’ll say!”

| She turns in mild annoyance. ‘‘I
rasn’t talking to you.’”’ She walks
}owly past him with a kind of ex-
ggerated dignity. The reflected
.ate stays in her mind’s vision and
ne walks down the stairs examin-
hg it.

_ Peter turns on the sink water with
Innecessary force. Kate has left his
orld of backyard games this year.
or the moment he has lost her. Not
ven the old taunts reactrher in the
ustve world she has entered with-
it him.

“Tell me about the first dance you
ver went to,’’ Kate says, leaning
2xt to me against the kitchen
punter. I know in advance that she
| gazing at her picture of a royal
all.

I think of how it was, remember-
g the stiff smile of effort on my
ce; the boys suddenly unfamiliar,
ith their plastered-down hair
iaelling of apricots; the flat, imper-
mal odor of floor wax; and the
dden, stomach-sinking contest of
ypularity.

“Well,” I began, “‘I wore a dress
| my sister’s ——’’

“What did it look like?’ Kate
ants to know eagerly.

“Well it was blue—and

~9?

By H. W. HICKLER

“Did it have a big skirt?”

“Sort of big—it had velvet ribbon
around the bottom.”

“Did you look beautiful ?”

I laugh and lean over to hug her.
Do any of us tell all the truth to
children always?

“Not especially,” I say, remem-
bering my awkwardness.

But Kate doesn’t believe me. “‘I’]1
have a gold dress.” Her eyes rest un-
seeing on the kitchen cabinets.
““No—turquoise,”’ she decides. She
is trying on her womanhood with
the delicate, graceful motions of the
little girl she still partly is.

“Turquoise,” I say
“that will be becoming.”’

“A roundish neck?” she asks.

“Yes. A round neck,” I say.

Her dreaming eyes gaze at me.
“Why don’t you put on some lip-
stick?” she asks.

Kate comes down the stairs
again, holding Freddy. I go toward
her to take the baby.

“Happy Easter,” I say to his
sleepy, upturned face. But I am
thinking of Kate. “‘Happy Easter,”
I say again, looking at her.

She smiles gently at me. “It is a
happy Easter,” she says. END

seriously ;

Try as we may to pin it on something else,
the chief cause of hyperabundant avoirdu-
pois (or fatness) seems to be food. And
6 drink. In the picture above, we have hinted

at two possible solutions. We recommend
only one. It is the substitution of Low Cal-
orie Shasta for your customary soft drink.

be SPOT IG" Low Calorie Shasta tastes darned good,
| y contains no sugar (thanks to Sucaryl®),

and a full 12-ounce can contains only six

J A ~ Ww

calories. This won’t solve your entire
weight problem (you might have to cut
down on rich desserts) but it surely helps.

ROOT BEER/ORANGE/COLA/LEMON-LIME/GRAPE/BLACK CHERRY/CREME/GINGER

...warns Henry M. Tobey,
| Research Director of the world’s
‘ largest hardwood floor maker...

“The reason? Many of today’s self-

polishing waxes are simply impossi-
ble to remove from wood floors without
causing serious damage to the finish
and wood—because they are made
primarily of synthetic plastics!

As a result, you keep putting clean
wax on top of old, dirt-embedded wax
until eventually the wood floor
becomes darkened and discolored.

The right way to care for wood floors
is to use either Bruce Cleaning Wax or
Bruce Floor Cleaner. Both contain a
combination of a removable liquid paste
wax and a wood floor cleaner. They
thoroughly clean your floor, remove
the old, soiled wax; and leave a rich,
new coat of real paste wax protection
—all at the same time!

Which product should you use? If
you want a heavy coat of wax, use
Bruce Cleaning Wax. For lighter wax-
ing or cleaning extra dirty floors, get
' Bruce Floor Cleaner. It’s the right
way to care for wood floors, and the
easiest, too!”’

A helpful 16-page booklet on wood floor care is yours for the
asking. Write E. L. Bruce Co., Dept. L-2, Memphis, Tenn.

floor

er i ee

LADIES’ HOME JOURN

(ntorgettable Bread

BUTTERSCOTCH
FRUIT CROWN
DOUGH:
1 cup milk,
scalded
14 cup butter
or margarine
l4 cup sugar
11% teaspoons
salt

2 packages active
dry yeast

14 cup lukewarm
water

1 egg, well beaten

51-6 cups sifted
flour

Put the hot milk, butter or margarine,
sugar and salt in a large bowl and let
stand until butter is melted and mix-
ture is lukewarm. Sprinkle yeast on
lukewarm water and stir until dis-
solved. Then add to the milk mixture
along with the egg. Gradually stir in
flour, beating smooth after each addi-
tion. Then beat until dough comes
away from the sides of the bowl. Turn
out on a lightly floured board or
pastry cloth and knead until smooth
and elastic. Place in a greased bowl,
cover, and let rise until doubled in bulk.
Then prepare glaze for the baking pan.

GLAZE:

14 cup softened
butter or
margarine

14 cup mixed
candied fruit,
cut fine

14 cup thinly
slivered filberts

V6 cup firmly
packed light
brown sugar

34 cup dark
corn syrup

14 cup melted
butter or
margarine

Spread butter or margarine on entire
inside surface of a 10” tube pan. Press
candied fruit and filberts on the but-
tered pan. Sprinkle or pat brown sugar
gently over all. Blend together corn
syrup and melted butter or margarine.
Punch down dough and turn out on a
lightly floured pastry cloth or board.
Divide into thirds. Cut each third into
12 pieces. Shape each piece into a ball.
Dip each little ball of dough into syrup-
butter mixture. Arrange in layers in
the glaze-coated pan. Cover and let
rise for 40-45 minutes or until doubled
in bulk. Bake in a moderately hot oven,
375° F., for 35 minutes. Remove from
oven and brush any remaining butter-
syrup mixture over top of cake. Re-
turn to oven for 10 minutes. Turn
bread out onto serving plate at once.
Cool. Makes 10-12 servings.

OATMEAL BREAD

11% cups evapo- 2 tablespoons

rated milk shortening

1 cup water 11% teaspoons

2 cups quick- salt
cooking 1 package active
oatmeal dry yeast

ls cup firmly 416 cups sifted
packed ' ~swn flour
sugar

Heat the evanorated milk and 14 cup
water to Eoiline and pour over the
oatmeal. Stir in the brown sugar, short-
ening and salt and allow to cool to
lukewarm. Meanwhile, soften the yeast
in 44 cup lukewarm water. When the
oatmeal! mixture has cooled, stir in the
yeast and then gradually add the flour.

3 NORMAN KAR
Butterscotch Fruit Crown shimmers

der a golden glaze of fruits and 4

Turn the dough out on a board i
knead until smooth. Grease a 2-quff!

bowl. Place the dough in it and t
turn it over. Cover with a clean to

and allow to double in size. Punch &

dough down and knead again |

until the dough handles easily. Div@

in half and shape into 2 loaves. Gri
2 loaf pans, measuring 9’x5’x234”.
the shaped dough in these, cover \
a clean towel and again allow to dot
in bulk. When ready, bake in a

erately hot oven, 375° F., for 15 1 i
Lower the heat to modergt

utes.
350° F., and continue baking for.
other 30 minutes. Turn from pans |
cool. Makes 2 loaves.

ONION ROLLS
2 cups chopped

onion shortening
14 cup butter 3 tablespoons
or margarine sugar

1 package active

4 cup soft

—_—_ —_

> = Ex

—_—

1 teaspoon séj}:

dry yeast 1 egg Ir

1 cup lukewarm 4 cups sifted #.
water 2 teaspoons fh.
poppy seeg,,.

Sauté onion in butter or marge

5 minutes, or until tender and golf
Set aside to cool. Sprinkle the yeas!

the lukewarm water. Let stand

BS A.

dissolved. Stir in shortening. Theng.,.

sugar, salt, egg and 314 cups Ol
flour. Mix with a spoon until sm

Add enough of the remaining flo,

make easily handled dough. Turt
onto floured board and knead |
minutes. Round up in a greased |
Cover with a clean cloth and let
until double in bulk. Punch down,
roll out very thin and cut into ¢
with a 3” biscuit cutter. Put a lit

IL, 1962

ye’s labor, bread baking. Lovely, the touch of dough. Exquisite,
scent of it. Soon the golden loaves follow—hearty bread, perhaps,
a glamorous ring wearing a caramel glaze, or lots and lots of
therweight rolls. No matter, if it’s home-baked and hot, hot, hot!

cooked onion in the center of each
e of dough and roll up like a jelly
Place on baking sheets, seam side
n, about 2” apart. Cover and let
until doubled in size again. Brush
_ milk and sprinkle with poppy
s. Bake in a hot oven, 450° F.,
5 minutes. Makes 3 dozen rolls.

KOLACHES
cups scalded 2 eggs, beaten
ilk 2 teaspoons salt
kage active 1 teaspoon grated
y yeast lemon rind
plukewarm 6-614 cups sifted
ater flour _
hp sugar Confectioners’
np shortening sugar

milk to lukewarm. Dissolve yeast
hter with 1 teaspoon sugar. Put re-
ling sugar and shortening in a
| and cream well. Add yeast, eggs,
‘lemon rind and lukewarm milk.
‘in about half the flour and beat
batter is smooth. Add remaining
gradually, beating smooth after
addition. Cover bow] with a clean
and let rise until doubled in
| Beat well, cover and let rise
,, until doubled in bulk. Punch
,, turn onto a well-floured board.
d lightly to break up air bubbles.
je into 4 parts and form each part
12 small buns. Place on greased
Ag sheets, about 2” apart, cover
la towel or waxed paper, let rise
until doubled in size. Make a
round indentation in the cen-
ff each and fill with a heaping
oon of apricot filling. Let rise
‘| shape again and bake in a hot
400° F., 10 to 12 minutes or
®light brown on top and bottom.

»ve to rack to cool. Dust with
fictioners’ sugar before serving.
as 48 rolls.

OT FILLING:
und dried apricots 14 cup sugar

apricots and cook according to
ge directions. Drain, reserving
Wp liquid. Quarter apricots and
diwith liquid and sugar over very
¥-at, stirring constantly, until thick

@ sifted flour 14 cupshortening
*& poons 34 cup butter-
Ming powder milk

spoon 3 tablespoons
ing soda finely cut pi-
“Boon salt miento, drained
(optional)

(ty ingredients into a bow]; cut in
ning. Add buttermilk all at once
#ir with a fork until soft dough is
i, about 18 strokes. Turn out on
1 floured board and with floured
pat or roll lightly 14” thick. Fold
and pat out again about 14”
Cut with floured 2” round cutter.
fon ungreased baking sheet in a
ot oven, 450° F., until golden,
inutes. Makes 12 biscuits. For

R5 i

| spaghetti sauce mix
niksaac | @OMeplete with tomato

SHREDDED-WHEAT BREAD

6 shredded- Y4 cup lukewarm ¢
wheat biscuits water
(large size) V4 cup molasses
2 cups boiling 3 tablespoons
water shortening
2 cups scalded 5 teaspoons salt
milk 8 cups sifted flour
1 package active
dry yeast

Break biscuits into pieces, then pour
boiling water over them. Let mixture
stand until cool. Stir in the scalded
milk. Add yeast to lukewarm water
and let stand for 5 minutes. When
biscuit-water-milk mixture is luke-
warm, add the yeast, molasses, short-
ening, salt and flour. Mix well. Turn
out onto lightly floured board and
knead for 5 minutes. Return to bowl,
cover with a cloth, and let rise until
twice its bulk, about 114 hours. Shape
into 2 medium-sized loaves. Place in
well-greased 9”x5”"x234” loaf pans.
Cover with clean towel and let rise
again until twice its bulk. Bake in a
moderate oven, 350° F., for 45-60
minutes. To tell when the bread is
done, slip a loaf from the pan and tap
bottom with fingers. If it sounds hol-
low, the bread is done; if not, bake a
few minutes longer. Remove bread
from pans immediately and place on
wire rack to cool, side down. For a
soft crust, cover the bread with a
towel while cooling. Makes 2 loaves.

SPOON BREAD

2% cups water 1 cup grated

2 cups yellow sharp Cheddar
cornmeal cheese

1% tbs. butter 11% cups butter-
or margarine milk

34 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon bak-

2 eggs, separated ing soda

In a large saucepan, bring water to a
boil. Gradually add cornmeal, stirring
until smooth and thickened. Then add
butter and salt and remove from the
heat. Beat egg yolks slightly and stir
into mixture along with cheese. When
cheese is melted, add buttermilk and
soda, mixing well. Fold in the egg
whites, which have been stiffly beaten,
and pour the mixture into a buttered
6-cup casserole. Bake for 40 minutes in
a very hot oven, 425° F. Makes 6
servings.

FOR THE BEST OF BREADS: Yeast
is a fragrant, living plant to be treated
as tenderly as the most delicate flower.
Dissolve it in water that’s not too hot,
not too cold, but just right—lukewarm.
Handle the dough with respect; you
hold its warmth and life in your hands.
When you set the dough to rise, meas-
ure and mark the bowl on the outside.

Then you will know for certain when it @
has just doubled in size. C ofl bee FE Ey OY-AR- D fs f

rapbeagt Poser = va toto tg ge Tey pee: pureed eps be a
eee ee ee ee ee ee re

Py ered Clie
a-chuuuuewy!
kerchoof!
_eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-ch!
or-chewy!!
ah-h-h-h-shoo!!
é hechoo!
a-heh-cha-choo!
hee chew!

lom. How many were caused by linty facial tissues? )

One of the above tic vacuum cleaner on our tissue-making machine.
facial tissue. (We SUSP Bae uae We call this device ““The Mechanical Nose” be-
to sneeze for good cause A, SO cause it breathes in the lint that you would nor-
turn against you, too, is int it thi oa mally inhale yourself. But better to have lint in

unnecessary irritation, we rncvan our nose than yours, Ours, at least, can’t sneeze.

IAPRIL, 1962

THE WOMAN’S MIND

ONTINUED FROM PAGE 30

awn mowers. Three fourths of the husbands
do this job, only 6 percent of the wives. In
general, husbands (70 percent) do most of the
heavy work, caring for trees, doing interior
painting; wives (54 percent) the lighter, such
as flower beds. More than half of our young
families (51 percent) have in mind particular
appliances they plan to buy in the next two
ears. Their new homes are well equipped with
efrigerators, washing machines and ranges;
“most wanted” items now are clothes dryers,
reezers and dishwashers.

Most wives and husbands own their houses
jointly, but an unexpected double standard
furns up in attitudes toward ownership. The
preatest group of wives (44 percent) feel their
homes really belong ““more”’ to their husbands,
Ithough the next largest (31 percent) went out
bf their way to say their homes belonged to
‘both equally’! (Husbands, incidentally, are
ore generous to their wives; only 35 percent
felt their houses were more theirs.) On the
urely theoretical question of who should get
he house in case of a divorce, the double
standard did an about-face: 73 percent of
he wives felt the wife should, 82 percent would
zive her the furniture.

Only 2 percent of our wives find themselves
na house “identical” with the house of their
Hreams, but for the most part these young
Wives and mothers everywhere have a saving
sense of reality that keeps them happy no
matter what they are living in. To many, the
ery words “dream house” mean unreality,
ike dreaming of being nominated one of the
en best-dressed women of the year. “My
iream house is full of push buttons, loud-

OW PARENTS CAN
HELP ADOLESCENTS
JNDERSTAND SEX

fONTINUED FROM PAGE 24

Many girls are easily persuaded that they
ust be free in petting in order to win and
old their dates, even though they may not
eel at all ready for this at the start. (Every
ime I see on the road a girl crowding against
he boy who’s driving the car, this reversal of
ex roles startles me.) It’s impossible for most
hOys not to take advantage of such invita-
ions. The girls, in turn, learn gradually to
vercome their natural reserve. When a boy
ains physical intimacy with a girl without her
sking for love and respect, he is sure to think
ess of her than before, even though he goes on
sking for more favors. Girls should know,
00, that boys who take advantage of girls
vho are easy marks show their scorn for them
y joking together about them. An increasing
timacy, before a boy and girl have found out
hether there are real admiration and ten-
erness between them, frequently leads to an
npleasant breaking up of the relationship,
ecause at least one of the pair has come to
islike herself or himself for this purely physi-
fal sexuality. But it also leads quite often to-
ay to pregnancy. (In the past twenty years the
ate of pregnancies in unmarried girls has
ipled.)

Adolescents are apt to think that the worst
esult of an unmarried pregnancy is the shock
gives to their parents and the neighbors.
n fact, many of the girls who become preg-
ant by throwing caution to the winds are
Ose who are at odds with their parents and
nconsciously wish to embarrass them.) Some
Oung couples who become involved in a
regnancy decide that the most gallant way to
eet community disapproval is to act un-
Shamed and defiant. This may impress their
arents, classmates and neighbors, but it
oesn’t make the couple feel good for very
ng. They’ve misunderstood where the real
arm is inflicted. The parents have their old
“iends who remain as loyal as ever, and they
till have their respected place in the commu-
ity. As soon as they can overcome their sense
f shame, their life resumes as before. It is the
a oy and girl who suffer the most, whether they

speaker systems, quick-baking ovens, plushy
carpets and elegant furniture. But with a
budget plus babies, these things must stay
on the dream level for quite a while!”’.. . “My
dream house was a spacious custom home ona
hill with lots of land around it and with a
swimming pool. My own home is not custom-
built nor does it have a swimming pool nor is
it on a hill. But I like it!’’ Said one harassed
housewife, ““A dream house comes equipped
with a maid!”

Their present houses will do as an approxi-
mation of their dream houses; 21 percent say
their houses are “very similar’’ to the house of
their dreams, 38 percent find them “fairly
similar,’ making (with that lucky 2 percent)
61 percent who at least have come in sight of
their girlish hopes. Half our wives may be
wrestling with loose tiles and stuck window
sashes, a third may feel seriously confined for
lack of space, but they discern that most of
their neighbors are no better off. Almost a
quarter are pleased to report that their houses
seem, to their children, nicer than their friends’
houses, and another 46 percent think they are
about the same. Only | percent have children
who complain that Mary Jones’s house is
nicer; the chances are that Mrs. Jones has
leaking-basement problems of her own.

To sum up, there is a strong, widespread
feeling, which comes into sharp focus with a
third of our wives, that today’s houses ought
to be better built for the price invested in
them. A woman from Erie, Pennsylvania,
eloquently states their position: “I have
found in the building of and ownership of our
first home that there should be more protec-
tion for the people who are investing their
life’s earnings in a home. It seems everything
is on the contractor’s side, and he is allowed
to get away with anything that will help put a

realize it or not. If they decide to make a mar-
riage which is not based on love and mutual
respect, the chances are high that it will soon
end in divorce. Such a marriage and divorce
will leave a worse taste in the mouth than one
which started with high hopes. If there is no
marriage, the girl has to go through the fright-
ening experiences of the long, lonely, secret
pregnancy and the childbirth, without the love
and emotional support of a husband, without
the encouragement of relatives. The preg-
nancy is likely to interrupt the education of
one or both, and so it handicaps careers.
Often the most painful experience is the isola-
tion from former friends and classmates at an
age when confidential friendships and group
life are most precious. In the long run the
worst harm for boy or girl, unless he was a
callous person to start with, is the loss of self-
respect—for having hurt his partner, his fam-
ily and his ideal of himself. (And an individ-
ual’s sense of his own worthiness is what he
really depends on most to maintain his inner
peace of mind from day to day, and to fire his
enthusiasm for the future.) If the girl is a
highly conscientious person she may remain
excessively aware of what she considers her
shame, avoid her old friends and neighbors if
she continues to live in the same town, fear to
fall in love with another boy in the future be-
cause she dreads that she will have to confess,
worry about what she will tell her later chil-
dren, feel guilty about the one whom she has
given up.

Before I end this discussion of pregnancy I
want to make sure it is understood that I have
been talking about the dangers of increasing
physical intimacy that start primarily with a
young girl’s belief that she must allow liber-
ties to be taken with her person in order to
gain and hold some boy’s interest, before she
knows whether there is any genuine love be-
tween them. She’s trading her body and part
of her soul in order to gain—for a brief
period—a steady partner and a bit of social
prestige. This is a miserable bargain for her
to make.

The sequence is very different when a boy
and girl have become mature enough in their
feelings to be drawn to each other as people,
and when the girl senses that her physical ap-
pealingness is a precious part of her total be-
ing. As they come to know each other better
they may find incompatibilities and draw

dollar in his pocket—by getting cheap and in-
ferior workmanship, by putting the cheapest
material he can get away with into the house.
Practically everyone I know feels the same
way. There should be much stricter control
over contractors. The minimum requirements
should be raised. This house is the biggest
investment we will ever make, yet there seems
to be less control over this business than over
the forty-nine cents I spend on a jar of pickles
at the grocery store.”

Balancing her is the cool voice of realism
from a young woman in Ohio: “I don’t think
we could have done any better for the price.
Our builder is trying to build a business for
himself, and did an exceptionally fine job on
our home. It isn’t the fanciest, but it is very
well built. There are some things we would
like that we don’t have, but you can’t expect
a house to suit in every detail unless you build
it yourself. All these extras raise the price
of a house considerably, so naturally you end
with only what you can afford to pay for.”

The conclusion seems to be the same on
both sides: in the absence of higher minimum
building codes, a builder of absolute integrity
is the home purchaser’s best safeguard against
disappointment in any price range. (Inci-
dentally, our wives might be interested to
know that many housing authorities favor
standardizing, tightening and bringing up to
date our hodgepodge of local, often archaic
building codes, although the building industry
is against any national legislation.)

And one other conclusion seems inescap-
able: unless dramatically new ways are found to
bring down building costs, today’s ideal house,
with the distinctive architect’s plans, the double
sinks and the three fireplaces that our house-
wives relish most, will continue to cost a great
deal of money.

apart. Or they may fall more seriously in love.
But the progress in stable people is usually
gradual. The boy’s physical desire increases,
but so does his desire to cherish, protect and
please. This gives the ultimate control of the
expression of physical affection to the girl. If
she becomes steadily more convinced that this
is a person she can love and depend on, her
readiness for physical responsiveness in-
creases. But she is usually less impulsive than
the boy. She is the one who sets the limits.
This does not make a boy who is in love lose
interest. It increases, for him, every aspect of
a girl’s desirability.

Most young people who have been brought
up in families with high ideals will not let
themselves get to the point of intercourse until
marriage, not because of lack of desire, not be-
cause they are timid, but because the girl,
knowing herself, knows that she would lose
some of her respect for herself. And the boy
loves her too much to be willing to make her
unhappy.

I’ve been talking as though there were only
the very foolish young people and the very
wise ones. Actually, of course, the great ma-
jority are in between. In most early and mid-
dle adolescents the feelings about self and
others are usually so changeable that they
can’t be counted on.

So I think a sensible parent’s advice to
daughter or son should always be: Go slow,
don’t wear your heart on your sleeve or throw
yourself at others; don’t let yourself be rushed
by your own impatience to be popular or by
your date’s pleas; when in doubt, trust your
cautious feelings because they are the ones
that usually prove right in the long run. A
parent from his or her own knowledge of the
world can tell a child, especially a daughter,
that some of the individuals most dated in the
early teens may be quite neglected or laughed
at a few years later, and that the ones who
keep their self-respect are more apt to have the
worthwhile partners in the end. This advice
sounds stodgy. But it’s really smart, as most
older adolescents and adults will agree, both
those who were wise themselves and those who
were foolish.

Next month I'd like to be more specific
about certain problems of early adolescence.

Dr. Spock regrets that it is impossible for him to answer
letters personally. However, he is delighted to receive
suggestions of topics of truly general interest —ED.

THE WORLD’S MOST

absorb
Hh Ng

What’s the sweetest
way to blot up excess
bath moisture? Puff on
fluffs of silky Cashmere
Bouquet Talc! Feel how
quickly the moisture

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HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY

“WERE BUYING
QUA FIRST HOUSE

The Dale Morrows,

of Independence, Missouri,
found that everybody
wants to help

a young couple

buy a house:

builder, bank

and Uncle Sam.

By NEAL GILKYSON STUART

PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOSEPH DI PIETRO

I EO OE ee a

For Army veteran Dale, purchase of new house was daz-
zlingly free of paper work ; $99 down covered everything.

Davey was only one in family who didn’t want to move.
He already had « best friend, couldn’t imagine new ones.

evo

When Nancy Morrow, of Independence, Missouri, looks out her kitchen win-
dow, she sees acres of rolling green lawn dotted with trim houses in various models.
Children are as rife as daisies, mothers hail one another from backyards. It is a view
of a full-sized community, and Nancy herself has seen it rise from mud and thin
air—and the longing of young couples to own homes.

It’s a longing that in 1961 put $22,000,000,000 worth of new homes on the
American landscape. Dale and Nancy Morrow put their first drop into this vast
sum just about a year ago, when they gave a real-estate developer $99 earnest ~
money toward their first house. The land on which he would put it, on the edge of
Independence, had once been a dairy farm, but Nancy recalls, “If it didn’t look
horrible last March! Six model houses set in a sea of mud.” Already dominating the
shorn landscape was a huge sign: “Glendale Gardens, a planned community of
1200 homes’’—not one of which was in evidence yet. a

Once their $99 was down, the Morrows had their worries about their decisiong
They liked the floor plan of the model they had chosen. After months of house
hunting, they were pretty sure they were making the best possible buy for their
money. But they had misgivings over some of the things that seemed part of buy-
ing a $15,025 house on a tiny down payment and a Veterans Administration loan.
The thirty-year schedule of payments offered by the builder would mean that
after two years of paying $104.03 a month, their equity in their house would be
less than $500. They would be in one of Kansas City’s most explosive ‘“‘bedroom”’
suburbs (Independence has shot up from a prewar 16,000 to 63,000), so poor that
young Master Davey Morrow, then three, would have in prospect only an old ele-
mentary school and no kindergarten. To his mother, a blue-eyed kindergarten
teacher, this was being underprivileged indeed. Finally, Nancy’s basic attitude
toward housing developments is reflected in her wry comment: “It’s like an in-
stitution. But then we must be mentally ill to pay so much for so little equity!”

But there was the bright side. They were already renting in a development put
up by the same builder, and they trusted his buildings and his integrity. Their
installment-plan purchasing would be cheaper than their rent. A young couple
whose chief resource is eligibility for a Government-guaranteed housing loan has
few other choices than brand-new low-cost housing low in risk. But their house
would presumably be spick-and-span and trouble-free for a number of years.

Finally, there would be the joy of possession. Their first payment might include
only $17.65 off the principal, but they would have complete and delicious mastery
over some very pleasant things: a small but good-looking split-level house gleaming —
with freshness, and a 70’ x 120’ lot for which the purchase price included topsoil,
two trees and six shrubs. As Nancy says now, “Sometimes Dale got cold feet. He’d
say, ‘It’s such an ordinary house. We’re pouring our money down the drain!’
Then he’d be thrilled. ‘We’ve made a good move!’”’

Joy of possession was no small thing to Dale and Nancy Morrow. When they
put up their $99 they had been married a little over four years. Dale, 5/11’,
combines a youthful crew-cut appearance with lines of wear etched in his face; he
has earned his own living since he was seventeen. He is a cost analyst at a huge
Ford assembly plant in North Kansas City, but he was thirty-one last March,
and had been with Ford less than a year. His route to home owning had zigged
and zagged from an hourly job to a late-won college degree, and as he says, “I
wanted to get settled and stay somewhere. This meant something to me.”

Nancy, five years younger, looks up to Dale as far more worldly than she, and
she admits her own longing for a home was completely simpleminded. Nancy has”
almost more kindergarten-teacher endowments than one young woman is entitled
to: she is small, neat and pretty, with a blooming complexion and eyes that, under
her dark brown hair, are not merely blue but startlingly blue. She had seen Dale
through every zig and zag, including hanging up wet laundry at midnight in a
rented kitchen, and she says, ‘“‘Ever since I was a girl I wanted a home so badly!
I was just longing to meet the right guy.”

The Morrows moved in last July. Five houses in all were up and occupied, in
addition to the empty display models. By fall there were eighty, and now the com
munity is spilling out of sight over the next hill. The green arrived with even dizzie
speed. Last summer wizard crews unrolled turf on the first hill like a grand carpet,
taking, Nancy recollects, about ten minutes per lot. Chinese-elm saplings and juni
per bushes went in next. Flower beds are first on Nancy’s list for this spring.

As early birds, the Morrows have a site at the top of the hill, with a big old
shade tree just off their property line. Under its branches is Davey’s swing set, an
on the swing set, at almost any hour of daylight, is a swarm of little boys, al
apparently identical in hair (blond, crew-cut), dress (blue CONTINUED ON PAGE 126

“Ever since I was a girl, I wanted a home so badly! I was just longing to meet the right guy.”

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124

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

It’s Easy To Have A Beautiful Home... Take A Look Around Your Home... Everybody Else Does. Remember when
Your house, your furniture, your carpets, were the stuff your dreams were made of? Acquiring them was exciting and
important. Maybe you got them one by one or a whole roomful or houseful at a time. But that was five years ago
_.-orten...or twenty. Have you taken a good objective look around your home lately? = That chair you didn’t replace
last year because you decided on something else; the carpet that youngsters and dogs have made a shambles of;
those uncomfortable, back-bending, sag-in-the-middle mattresses you promised yourself to replace? You’re used
to them, so most of the time they don’t bother you. You have more money now than when they were all bright and
new... but there are so many interesting things to spend it on. m But think. Your home is you. Take a look around,
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family, your friends, and YOU will enjoy the results. MERCHANDISING DEPT., LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL.

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 122 jeans) and size (pint) with Davey.
It is hard to tell four-year-olds apart when they come by
the dozen, as they certainly do in Glendale Gardens, but
Davey stands out as a leader among men. His climbing
is bolder, his words more complicated, and it is he, after
all, who can grandly invite, say, five comrades in for
flavored drink and crackers. Davey has a slight cast in
one eye, and is currently wearing glasses, but his walk and
his stance as he swigs the drink right from the pitcher
(“I was thirsty,” he tells his mother, panting) are so
absurdly sturdy that he looks like an owlish junior boxer.

Nancy almost invariably provides the nourishment,
kept rigidly simple. For one thing, since Davey is an only
child, she welcomes the free-swinging social life. For an-
other, she not only knows most of the children by name,
she knows most of their parents, too, although she may be
defeated by a newcomer with his fingers planted in his
mouth. ‘“‘What’s your name, honey?” she asks. Silence.
“Is it Bobby?” The little boy nods agreeably. “Billy?”
Another nod. ‘Stevie?’ Another nod. But Davey is a
perfect host. He can manage to keep up a conversational
monologue with his silent friend during half a box of
crackers, and at lunchtime can take him by the hand and
lead him home across the green.

Nancy has almost inevitably become one of the knitters-
together of her area. She is an old-timer, she is a shade
older in years than many of her very young neighbors, and
above all, she is friendly. On top of this, she is a recruiting
officer of high zeal for “Preschool,” an organization that,
among other things, lobbies for kindergartens, and she is
almost totally surrounded by eligible potential members.
She says, “I have some wonderful neighbors here,” and
she now has friends who comfortably drop in for coffee
and with whom she exchanges baby-sitting services.

The Morrows’ house is brick-and-frame fronted, on
three levels. Inside, it is almost as fresh and pretty as its
keeper. The upper level has three small bedrooms, a bath
and a half, and a little hall lined with baby pictures of
Davey. Bedroom No. 3 is given over to an ironing board,
mending and a desk. On the wall are two diplomas from
the University of Kansas; Dale’s from the School of Busi-
ness, Nancy’s from the School of Education.

On the second level is Nancy’s spanking new kitchen,
full of built-ins, and the big, sunny living room with a
picture window facing south. Nancy describes their furni-
ture as ‘‘Early Matrimony.” The basic pieces they have
acquired over the years—couch, big braided rug, coffee
table, dinette set—are of good modern design, and the
fact that the Morrows haven’t any too much furniture
gives the small house a clean, uncluttered look. Their best
piece is a new console piano recently given Nancy by her
mother. (Among her other endowments, Nancy includes
piano playing. Of the splendid gift, she says gratefully, “I
guess my mother had to justify the fortune she spent on
lessons for me.’’)

Windows and polished floors gleam, for Nancy is a
demon housekeeper. Dale recalls that Nancy used to
scrub up her own kindergarten room, and he says with
amusement, “‘She likes things spotless. She cleans even
when there isn’t anything to clean.”

“Oh, but there always is!’’ Nancy cries. “‘If there isn’t,
Davey brings something in. He feels sorry for me.”

At ground level are the utility room and big garage.
This is Davey’s rainy-day and trike area, for their hill is
unsafe for him to pedal down, and here Dale has built an
impressive workbench to his CONTINUED ON PAGE 133

-_ ™

House at $15,025 included storm doors, aluminum screens, dishwasher and landscaping.

Dale’s only flaw to Nancy: he won’t talk before second cup of coffee.

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HOW 10 PAY
FOR HOME
IMPROVEMENTS

BY SIDNEY MARGOLIUS

Consultant on Family Finances of
the Family Service Association of America

Today they're even in reach of the “broke
young couple” with the brand-new mortgage.

The $99 Dale and Nancy Morrow (read about
them on page 122) put down on their new house is
only the beginning of a great deal of buying and
spending. Home-hungry American families—62 per-
cent own their homes, compared with the last gener-
ation’s 43—spend an average of $1600 just the first
year for equipment ($725), furniture ($650) and
tools ($225).

Nor do these expenditures include improvements
to the house itself. Few new development homes re-
main very long as they begin. Dormers are added,
attics finished, garages transformed into family
rooms, and little dining alcoves into full-size dining
rooms.

For many new homeowners, the need for improv-
ing and equipping makes a financial quandary, espe-
cially since today’s buyers increasingly are young
families, short of ready cash but determinedly quit-
ting the old pattern of renting for the first few years.
In 1961 more than half the buyers of FHA-financed
homes were still in their twenties.

Dale and Nancy already have spent close to $400
in the first six months— from $25 for workbench ma-
terial to $170 for a living-room chair. But they
haven’t made a noticeable dent in their wants. They
foresee about $1100 more of additional equipment
and improvements, some undeniably urgent, like
storm windows to insulate and new draperies to
draw across their picture window which looks out on
their neighbors’ picture window.

I advised the Morrows not to fear making useful,
carefully financed improvements, such as putting in
the storm windows, transforming their dining al-
cove, proceeding with Dale’s basement den and pro-
viding basement storage. Their prospects for recov-
ering practical investments in the house are good,
even if they move in a few years. The house is a
well-built one, in a young, improving neighborhood.
Some of the best investments families have made
have been the homes they improved, and sold when
their needs changed. Home improvement is one of
the few ways the Morrows can spend their money
and have it. They will have the use of the improve-
ments meanwhile, and even have a “‘hedge’’ against
inflation, since the value of their improvements will
rise with other prices.

But for retrievable investment, the Morrows—
and other new homeowners who expect eventually
to move to larger properties—need to follow three
policies:

1. Make sure any costly improvements add to basic
livability. Merely cosmetic improvements, though
they may be worthwhile for a family’s pleasure, are
not likely to recover as much of their cost as im-
provements that add space or convenience, like add-
ing a room or enlarging a garage.

For example, an appraiser reports he found buyers
willing to pay $15,000 for a $14,000 house with an
extra bath, although it cost only $500, but only $500
more for brick veneer instead of asbestos shingle,

pe ea

although the brick surface cost $1000. Elaborate
patios are another primarily decorative type of im-
provement often cited by realtors as recovering less
than their full cost on a resale, although they may
help a house to sell faster.

2. Stay within hailing distance of neighborhood val-
ues. Once buyers were willing to pay and mortgage
appraisers to approve only about 10 percent more
for houses improved more than their neighbors. Now
both are more likely to go as high as 20-25 percent
more. But the specter of the overimproved house
lingers as a caution against expanding noticeably
faster and bigger zf you may leave.

3. Compare estimates and finance at lowest cost.
Nancy is not a wife to heed home-improvement can-
vassers, who flock to new developments, without
consulting Dale. After working their way through
college and meeting medical bills of as much as
$1200 in one year, they have a strong sense of values
and mutuality. They get at least three estimates on
large purchases. (For their storm windows, the bids
ranged from $220 to $280.)

The Morrows currently have a surplus of $100 a
month above basic expenses. The surplus may not
remain this plump. Like many other families that
move to outlying developments, they face the ques-
tion of a second car. Nor can they count on their
monthly house expense remaining at $104. Property
taxes are the fastest-rising cost of ownership in new
developments as necessary new schools are built.

But for the present, I suggested they divide their
surplus into two funds, and put $50 a month into an
investment account for Davey’s education and other
long-range goals, and the remaining $50 into a sav-
ings account labeled ‘‘Home Improvements.”’ Then
they can buy their needs one at a time with no fi-
nance charges, for such charges can add noticeably
to the cost of improvements.

For example, the Morrows might buy storm win-
dows for the kitchen and bath first, where window
condensation is heaviest, fit the other rooms later,
and finish their basement bit by bit.

For improvements that can’t wait for savings to
accumulate, new homeowners have access to several
financing methods. These are, in order of ascending
cost:

Package mortgage. Many lenders now will include
in the original mortgage durable equipment and
improvements that add to basic livability, for both
new and older houses. For example, the Morrows
could have had storm windows installed by the
builder and included in the original mortgage. Then
their finance charge on the windows would have
been just the low GI mortgage rate of 514 percent.
However, there is a compensation in their initial
reluctance to buy additional equipment. Though the
mortgage rate is low, the total interest cost 7m dollars
over a long period like 30 years will be much greater
than for a short-term loan even at its higher rate of
interest.

Mortgage readvance. Many mortgages now have

n ‘“‘open-end”’ clause, allowing you to reborrow up
to the original amount at the same interest rate.
You can repay the new loan either by increasing
your monthly payment, or by keeping the same
payment and increasing the number of years you pay.

Like the package mortgage, the readvance offers
a chance to borrow at the low mortgage rate rather
than the higher rate for short-term loans. Too, a
readvance may be more palatable on a modest
budget. For example, a readvance of $2000 on a
514-percent mortgage which still has 20 years to run
would add $13.48 to the monthly mortgage payment.
In contrast, an FHA short-term home-improvement
loan of $2000 for 36 months would require $63.88 a
month, or if stretched to the maximum 60 months,
$41.57.

But though a readvance has advantages for
homeowners with big needs and little surplus over
living expenses, it is costly if used unnecessarily. A
readvance of $2000 on a mortgage with 20 years to
go, even at 514 percent, means you pay a total of
$1235 in interest, in addition to a moderate closing
cost of $25-$50. An FHA short-term loan, even at
its true annual rate of about 10 percent, would cost
$300 in interest fees if repaid in 36 months; $494 if
in 60 months.

Long-term improvement loan. A valuable new aid
is the long-term FHA improvement loan enacted i
1961. This is the first time improvement loans have
been offered at a true 6% percent. The earlier short
term FHA home-improvement loans cost $5 per
$100. But the $5 is calculated on the original debt
not on the declining balance as in the new long
loans, and so isa true annual rate of about 10 percent

The new long loans go up to $10,000 with as long
as 20 years to pay. They offer a way to hold on toa
present low-rate mortgage while also avoiding the
usual second mortgages that cost up to 10 percent
interest. But the new plan, too, is reserved for im
portant improvements. Minimum loan is $2500
($1000 in urban-renewal areas).

Short-term loan. For moderate-size projects, FHA
$5-per-$100 loans, and bank and credit-union per
sonal loans, still are a reasonable choice. Banks’
personal-loan rates in different areas range from $4
to $7 per $100; credit-union rates, from $3.25 to $6.50

Another way families in new developments can
pare improvement costs is through mutual buying
Families in young neighborhoods nowadays often
arrange for joint bids on equipment needs, co-
operatively buy garden supplies and even fuel and
milk at special rates. Dale and Nancy had some
experience with co-operative activity in their previ
ous neighborhood where six neighbors jointly put up
a property-line fence. Now Dale and his new neigh
bor are renting equipment and buying supplies to-
gether to put in their permanent lawns.

The Morrows’ first investment of their other
$50-a-month fund will be in the stock of Dale’s com:
pany. His employer pays one third of the cost—ar
opportunity too choice to neglect.

With expanding possessions, Nancy and Dale
now also face ownership questions. The trend among
young families is to joint ownership with right ol
survivorship. This is a sign of growing mutual trus
and also is regarded as a simple, inexpensive way of
assuring ownership by the remaining partner if oné
should die. Dale and Nancy put their house in both
names, and alternate in listing themselves as co
owners of their child’s savings bonds.

But as a family’s assets increase, overreliance or
joint ownership has potential liabilities. One is tha
a lawsuit against the husband could result in seizure
of their joint property. Another is the possibility, in
the event of death, of being left temporarily withou'
funds when state tax officials seal off savings ac
counts. Too, for families with larger holdings, joint
ownership could result in higher inheritance taxes:
Nor does joint ownership really eliminate the ne@
for reciprocal wills.

State laws vary and a lawyer should be consulte d
But in general, here are advantageous ways t
handle ownership:

Cash accounts. The family’s chief cash accoun
may be in both names, and each spouse also shoulc
have an individual account for immediate access if
case of death; or at the very least, the wife should
The joint account should be the larger one. Thougl
you can’t get immediate possession of joint funds
they are freed sooner than a deceased spouse’
individual account.

Safe-deposit box. This should at least be in bot
names, and preferably, some bankers feel, in th
wife’s. Since the box is temporarily sealed in thi
event of death, a wife may need access more uf
gently than a husband with a salary.

Securities. Here the main consideration is tha
both husband and wife can exclude up to $50 ¢
stock or mutual-fund dividends from income tax
Either joint ownership or registering some shares 1M}
each name can secure a double exclusion of $100)

For savings bonds, joint ownership is the easiest
method, except for large estates, since joint property,
would be considered for Federal inheritance-ta
purposes to be the husband’s unless the wife n
prove part was originally hers. |

The house. Joint ownership 1 is the simple, inexpen-
sive method and is usually protected sufficientl} y
from state inheritance taxes by exemptions, but
some authorities feel that putting the house in the
wife’s name better protects her and the children,
especially if the husband is in business or other cit
cumstances where lawsuits are a possibility. ENI

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TRACT-HOUSE
KITCHEN

BY MARGARET DAVIDSON
HOMEMAKING EDITOR

Wheeled pastry center rolls between
sink and range, fits under counter.

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LADIES’ HOME JOURN/E

The kitchen in the Dale Morrows’
new split-level home in Indepen-
dence, Missouri (you meet the
family on page 122), is as neat as
a new-mown lawn—and the fra-
grance is just as refreshing on days
when pretty Nancy Morrow bakes
pies for her husband’s lunch or
cookies for son Davy. But storage
and counter space were woefully
limited until the Morrows made
room for a cooking and baking
center next to the range.

First an ordinary wheeled utility
table was transformed into a pas-
try center. A wood section ($4)
was screwed on top; a solid front
was added; tip-out bins ($12)
and storage shelves were fitted
into place. Then an unfinished
wood cabinet ($18) with adjustable
shelves was installed next to the
cart. A new top of hard plastic ($8)
spans the distance from the old
electric range to the new cabinet
for more working space. Since the
Morrows’ is an open kitchen, the
new cabinet was painted turquoise
to go with the living room, then
splattered with white and tan to
blend with the natural-birch cab-
inets and sand-toned floor in the
kitchen. A home-carpentered screen
backs the new counter and shields
the kitchen from the living room.
The cost? Out-of-pocket charges,
including lumber, paint and hard-
ware, total about $55. For further
information about the made-over
cart,writetothe Journal Workshop.

Le1962

RE BUYING
wR FIRST HOUSE”

TINUED FROM PAGE 126

Hi specifications. The Morrows have the
inse satisfaction of being able to treat
Selves, within modest limits, to almost
Ba ovement or new household item
Jakes their fancy, for their move coincided
ba steady upturn in their fortunes. Last
| completed Dale’s first year with Ford,
}rought him a raise from $475 to $520 a
h, as well as the savings over their pre-
$120-a-month rent. Dale also receives
| itomotive industry’s cost-of-living bonus
dition to his base, and last October he
ed another small raise. bringing his total
nly average from Ford to very nearly
i In addition, Dale is a company com-
er inthe Army Reserve, with the rank of
feutenant, and pay-plus-allowances that
izes $91.55 a month.
ring their first months in their house,
ind Nancy managed to spend about $50
ith on moving and settling-in expenses.
things, like the clothesline for the back-
($23), are the necessary price of being
bwners. Others, like Dale’s new power
$35), are pure pleasures. But the Mor-
ulso have the satisfaction, far less com-
jof knowing exactly where their money
yne and how much was spent. Dale is a
sity graduate of business administra-
'Vho deals with money figures in his job.
ng track of expenses appeals to Nancy’s
find, and she even keeps her marketing
added up during the course of each
i. She can, within minutes, produce files
bdgers that show the exact balance of
joint checking account, and their ex-
_ broken down by month and category
} last several years. She knows precisely
huch their house move cost them, from
, the piano retuned ($8) to buying back-
) the curtains at the side door (80 cents
jmedical expenses are high, for Davey
yere allergies, and Nancy has mild ones,

SAU Cope E51
| with Ocean Spray
|| Cranberry Sauce!

but even so they are now for the first time able
to talk with confidence about buying a new
car. Their routine expenses, even counting
power saws and Christmas as “routine,” still
leave as much as $100 a month to spare. When
Nancy pays their bills and makes notes in her
careful files, she has the satisfaction of know-
ing that their finances are as shipshape as their
house.

This is still so new an experience that it has
lost none of its savor. Nancy Lee Jones was
raised in the small town of Caney, Kansas,
and “home” to her and her mother was her
grandparents’ house. Her father, pictures of
whom she cherishes, had died very young, and
her mother, “‘so attractive and so capable,”
became office manager of a furniture store.
Nancy says, “After my grandfather died, we
became a household of three women. I have
lots of old-maidish tendencies.”

She had finished Coffeeville (Kansas) Junior
College on a music scholarship when, in 1955,
she was offered a scholarship to the University
of Kansas and decided to take it.

In the row behind her tn a “Civilization”
class sat Dale. Nancy says, “I thought he was
darling. He looked older than the other
boys—he looked like a man of the world. I
think that was what attracted me to him. |
spent more time turning around
him than I did looking at the instructor.”

To which Dale replies with relish, “Yes, I
saw her giving me the eye. I thought she
looked kind of young.”

Dale was then just turning twenty-six, to
Nancy’s not-quite twenty-one. He was, at the
moment, having a hard time, which helped
account for the haggard look Nancy found so
appealing. After classes he was commuting
from Lawrence to Kansas City, forty miles
each way, to a full-time job on an evening
shift. Dale had not really settled down to
getting an education until he came out of the
Army at the age of twenty-four. He had come
out a second lieutenant, with battle experi-
ences in Korea, and had already acquired
about two years of credits at a Kansas City
college, living at home and working at night.

to look at

But he wanted a business school, and this year
he had transferred to the University of Kan-
sas. While Nancy was eying him from the row
in front, Dale was often falling asleep. He
already had serious doubts as to whether his
degree, still so far away, could be worth so
much commuting.

Something else added to Dale’s strain that
fall too. He had married the previous spring,
but the marriage had lasted only a matter of
months. It had not survived his wish to take
his young wife from suburban Kansas City
to Lawrence.

A clergyman wrote to a wealthy and in-
fluential businessman requesting a sub-
scription to a worthy charity and soon re-
ceived a curt refusal which ended, ‘‘As far
as I can see, this Christian business is just
one continuous give, give, give.’’ Replied
the clergyman, ‘“‘I wish to thank you for the
best definition of the Christian life that |
have yet heard.”’ REV. W. STRIDE

His parents had just moved to Ohio, and
he was now living alone in a boardinghouse.
He came, as Nancy now says defensively,
“froma good Christian home,” and the failure
of his marriage had shocked him. But red
eyes, haggard look and all, Dale still had
heart enough to start walking across campus
with Nancy after class. Finally he asked her
for a coffee date. He picked her up at her
scholarship dormitory, but Nancy came flying
out looking “rather shook.” She had just dis-
covered he was married.

She sai in his car and they talked about it,
but she put a quick end to their relationship.
“| had no intention of going out with a mar-
ried man.’

That was that. With the opening of the sec-
ond semester, Dale did not reappear. His job
had won in the conflict with his education,
and he was back in Kansas City working

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They did not see each other again until Nancy
had finished the school year and gone right
through summer school. She was still short
eight credits toward her degree that fall of
°56, but she came to Kansas City to teach,
and at Union Station she saw a familiar pair
of eyes behind the wheel of a taxicab.

Dale was supplementing his regular work
with part-time cab driving (for one thing, he
had just bought a new car). He was parked at
the station drinking a malted milk when he
saw Nancy, and he was so mortified at being
caught by an ex-girl that he held the carton
before his face. But he was too late. Nancy
says. “I couldn’t even remember his name! f
said, ‘Don’t I know you?’

The carton came down before Nancy's
friendly inquiries as to why he hadn’t come
back to the university. He found out where
she was living and asked if he might call. He
let her know his divorce was final. They had
their first date on September eighth, and by
November they were engaged.

To Nancy’s great relief, “Everybody in my
family fell for Dale.”” They were married on
February 17, 1957, and Nancy considers that
the wedding cost a shocking amount of money,
of which she doesn’t regret a penny. “I'd al-
ways dreamed of a big wedding; I think it’s
something every girl should have.”

After the wedding came the bump to reality.
Nancy went right on teaching till June. They
had no honeymoon. Recollections of their
first few months of marriage are of meeting
time payments on their new furniture and
coping with morning sickness. Nancy became
pregnant almost instantly (“Ud say, ‘Excuse
me, children!’ and dash from the classroom’’).

Nancy stopped working in June, they hustled
through their payments to make way for the
baby, and on Nove:nber twenty-second Davey
was born, a wholly legal nine months and five
days after their wedding. That same month,
Dale was promoted from hourly wages to a
salaried job. That Christmas they put Davey
in his crib under their Christmas tree (“He
was the thing we were proudest of”’) and gave
each other socks and underwear for presents.

£:

JELU eD

Jellied or Whole Berry Sauce

OTE WS)

WiC iEtAlie SMe tho tty RN acre

The following February they celebrated
their first wedding anniversary with dinner
out—always Nancy’s biggest treat. They were
a troubled young couple. Dale’s $400-a-
month salary didn’t give them much margin,
and their baby was a worry; he was throwing up
his milk and crying a great deal. Dale had
joined the Army Reserve and was selling in-
surance part time. They had almost no leisure,
and rare moments of privacy. But over the
dinner table, Nancy solemnly raised the sub-
ject of their future. “I told him I didn’t feel as
though we were getting anywhere. I thought
he had /ofs more potential than being a stock-
room clerk at General Motors. I told him we
weren't getting any younger, and more chil-
dren might come; if he was ever to get a de-
gree, now was the time to do it.”

Dale says, “I was kind of surprised. Nancy
had talked school back even when we were
dating, but I didn’t know she was still thinking
all this. We talked it over, and from then on
we knew it was in both our minds.”

The ’58 recession was on, and in the spring
Dale was cut back to an hourly rate again.
“That hurt my pride.” That fall he and Nancy
were both enrolled back at the university.
Nancy had her eight hours to complete, and
Dale, thanks to the passage of time and
interrupted courses, still had about two full
academic years to go. The prospects were
frightening, for Dale had already used his
GI benefits, and at that time was not eligible
for more. Davey’s troubles had finally been
diagnosed as an allergy to milk (and to wheat,
eggs and a number of other things too), and
Nancy was now driving him to Topeka twice a
week for tests. Ahead of him lay a future of
tests, shots and pills. As Nancy says, with
graphic candor, ‘“‘We were scared spitless.””

They began their first semester with sheer
courage, but that fall, in a heaven-sent re-
prieve, Congress passed a new GI bill that
covered Dale again. Benefits of $180 a month
hecame the rock upon which they built. Dale
filled out with part-time $l-an-hour jobs. For
the two years that he was back at the uni-
versity, he never saw a football game. He
worked twenty-hour weekends, another ten
hours during the week, drilled faithfully with
the Army Reserve (another $58 a month).
“Then he’d come home and study till so late.
Not enough sleep is the story of Dale’s life.”

Once Nancy completed her credits, the
skies began to lift. Their second semester she
was a substitute teacher. They sold Dale’s car
and bought a °50 model for $90. In the fall of
*59, Nancy became a full-time kindergarten
teacher, with the magnificent salary of $4000
a year. They felt practically rolling in wealth.
Dale remembers hunting in drawers for odd
dimes their first year, and “going to class
without a penny.’ Now he could actually af-
ford coffee between classes.

Dale graduated in June, 1960. His parents
came from Ohio for the ceremonies; Nancy’s
family attended too. ‘“‘He got A’s and B’s in
every course but one,” says Nancy proudly.
“Ford offered him a job while we were sé'll
on campus, and I got $900 from the school
system—my summer pay in a lump sum be-
cause I was terminating. Within three weeks
we had moved, and Dale was at work.”

Fora paid for their move to a rented house
in their first development, also outside Inde-
pendence. Nancy remembers the week they
moved as a kind of thrilling rehearsal for
their later one. Her mother took Davey, and
they had the week to themselves. “It was the
first time we’d ever had a house. Dale would
be down in the basement, and I’d be in the
living room, and we’d holler to each other—
it was like living in a mansion. We unpacked
everything we possessed.

“We bought Dale clothes for business
wear—suits, a topcoat. A hat. We got a swing
set for Davey, the dinette set, our washing
machine. We would go downtown, shop in
the morning, have lunch, come home, have a
cup of coffee together. It was like getting mar-
ried again. We had a ball.”

For Nancy it was a rosy week, and part of
the joy was having her husband to herself
again. Once established, they quickly put
down roots in their new community. Nancy
was a substitute teacher again during ’60-’61.
She joined both Preschool and her local chap-

ter of the American Association of University
Women. Incorrigible Dale volunteered an eve-
ning a week to a Junior Achievement group,
and became a company commander of the
Army Reserve. The latter has consumed far
more of his hours than Nancy cares to spare.
He drills on Tuesday nights, is at the armory
all day on Saturdays, and his two weeks’ vaca-
tion is totally swallowed by summer camp.
Nancy is perfectly capable of saying vehe-
mently, “Of course I resent it. Think of it! I
don’t even have the car on Saturdays, much
less my husband.” It’s understood that she
can allege that Dale gets home on Tuesdays
at 1 A.M. (“What time was I home last Tues-
day?” says Dale. “‘Midnight!’’) after hours of
presumable beer drinking, but on the whole
she knows how much Dale enjoys his Army
ties, and she adds philosophically, ““There’s
always something! A Dale Carnegie course,
volunteer work, this year he’s going to real-
estate school.”

House hunting became their Sunday recre-
ation. Nancy admits she thoroughly enjoyed
looking over some $30,000 houses, but that
was for pure fun. After they had put their
money down in Glendale Gardens last March,
they spent spring evenings driving over to
look into their hole, then watch the 2 x 4’s
go up, the house take final shape. ““Davey
would have a lovely time. He’d come home
filthy.”

They moved officially on July 15, 1961. Dale
took one week of (paid) vacation, but he had
to leave right after that for two weeks of
summer camp (without pay), and Nancy’s
recollection of her first week in the house is of
spending a great deal of time heavily starching
Army uniforms. But she says, “After Dale
left, | really tore into it—room by room.”

Dale came back late on a Saturday night,
and Nancy drove him home. He opened the
door, saw the charming house with pictures
hung, floors waxed, even flowers in the living
room. “You really have been busy,” he said
“But then I knew you would be.”

This year Nancy is no longer working. She
finds her own house and her own boy almost
pure pleasure after the “rush and confusion”
of substitute teaching. Also, as she says, look-
ing irresistibly domestic with her blue eyes,
apron and slacks, “I /ove housework.”

Nancy is housebound without a car, but
Davey, house, neighbors, Preschool meetings

and her own cheerful energy keep her busy.
She bakes twice a week, her weekly cleaning
schedule is so rigorous it includes sweeping
the garage floor. She plans milkless, butterless,
eggless menus around Davey’s allergies, re-
spects Dale’s feeling that anything less than
apple pie is a pretty flimsy dessert. Lolling
about in a housecoat is absolutely foreign to
her. “I have to get dressed, put on my makeup
right away. I fee/ better that way.”

One night a week, usually Fridays, the
whole family shops together. They go to one
of the huge shopping centers that bloom in
the suburbs and have hamburgers and malted
milks at a counter. Then Nancy takes a shop-
ping cart while the two men visit boats or
tools. Two shopping nights a month, their
errands include a trip to the bank to deposit
Dale’s semimonthly check. This averages
about $218 after irregular deductions. They
promptly withdraw $50 for Nancy, $10 for
Dale, plus cash for any extra purchase (such
as lumber for Davey’s shelves) that they
plan to make. Out of Nancy’s $100 a month
come Dale’s cigarettes, shoe repair, dry clean-
ing, small drugs, and so forth, and regularly
$72 for food. Although she tacks her slips up
on her kitchen bulletin board and regularly
adds them up, she says, “I don’t even think
about it while I shop. I just find it comes out
the same every month.”

Tucked around Dale’s Army Reserve and
real-estate classes is a busy social life. They
make Sunday trips to Caney to visit Nancy’s
mother and grandmother; Dale’s parents have
returned from Ohio, his brother and his
family are nearby; they have old friends.
“We have company or are out visiting a/most
every weekend. Our kind of entertaining costs
almost nothing at all. We exchange invita-
tions, and the children are always included.”

And Davey, their only child, adds much to
their life. His parents treat him with sensible
firmness. His legs are sturdy, his color rosy,
he flourishes with irresistible health among his
allergies. His special charm is his well-behaved
zest for life. He can eat an entire hamburger
(while his parents make sudden dashes with
napkins) making strenuous broad jumps off
a lunch-counter step. He doesn’t say, “Look
at me!”’ He just goes earnestly about the job
of meeting a challenge.

Like almost all fours, Davey still turns to
his mother first, but nothing shakes Dale’s

HOW THE MORROWS SPEND THEIR MONEY EACH MONTH
WHAT THEY GET
Salary. . $951.20
Cost-of-living bonus. 8.66
Army Reserve pay and allowances. 91.55
$651.41
WHERE IT GOES
Federal income tax 66.95
Social Security tax 12.50
State income tax 3.14
2% state sales tax (estimated) tee ae 3.30
(Total taxes) 85.89
Rood su. 72.00
Housing(mortgage payment, $83. 09; taxes, $16; property
insurance, $4.94; utilities, heat, $35.25; phone, $7.50;
cleaning supplies, $5; home maintenance, garden
supplies, $12) . aM ; 163.78
Home furnishings, equipment . 35.00
Clothing (purchases, $20; cleaning, $4) 24.00
Medical care (contribution to Sues insurance, $3:
other expense, $24.67) ; 27.67
Car expenses (including insurance) 30.70
Contributions (church, charity) . 13.00
Personal gifts. : 5.50
Reading, recreation (periodicals, $4; recreation, baby-
sitter, $11; Davey’s playthings, $2) 17.00
Advancement (Dale’s real-estate course, $8.33; club
dues, $1.20; Army Reserve expenses, $9) 18.53
Dale’s personal cash. ; 13.00
Personal care (including barber, toiletries) : f 10.00
Life insurance (including employee contributions) . 17.00
Miscellaneous (including stamps, film, cigarettes) . 13.00
Debt repayment RE PA ea 5.00
(Total living expenses) 465.18
Available for savings, home improvements or car 100.34
TOTAL $651.41

LADIES’ HOME JOU

gentle attentiveness to or pride in his
male son. ‘““We’re like most parents,” he
sheepishly. ““We imagine the day when
be in the K.U. stands shouting, ‘That
boy!”

Although Nancy and Dale take deep
ure in their present scale of living, the
hardly been recklessly self-indulgent.
have made their cautious investment in
house. Dale last year took out a pi
insurance policy in addition to his com
insurance, offering Nancy special proté
while Davey is young. But they still ha
same secondhand refrigerator Dale’s
gave them when they were married (
once crammed fifteen pounds of sale bee’
its small freezer). They still have a 195
Nancy has plans for putting up white
fencing along their property lines (puré
grow climbing roses on, nor to keep ch
out), but they have no great plans #6
proving the house. “Someday we hope
a more permanent home,” says Dale.
secret of a first house like this is not t
prove it too much. We’ll have to take
care of it, but mainly we’ll want to ge
equity out of it.”

lhe dreams ahead, then, are a bette
soon, a better house not very soon, and
glimpse of Davey on the Kansas varsi
there is an empty spot in Nancy’s heart
for a second child. She is still keepir
Davey’s clothes in case she gets pre;
again. But if more children don’t materi
she says cheerfully, “I'll go back to teac
Last fall, when I saw the kids going ba
school, I wanted to go right back with th

Every now and then it strikes them
they are being hustled along by forces t
than they. It was an industrial econom
made Dale’s degree advisable; they hav
to look to a huge Government (with non
able lessening in their self-reliance) for:
in a number of important areas. “We
owe the Government for our educatio
our housing,” says Nancy, ‘and many
time Dale’s Army Reserve check save
We're not like some people who hat
Government—we don’t even mind payi
income tax. We get it all back!”

They are living in a huge housing dey
ment whose tender saplings in all the
and back yards have not yet had tin
soften its nakedness. Dale is working}
giant automotive plant that employs
men. He has shifted from old union loy
to broader management loyalties. He is
cerned that he is the only man in his de
ment who doesn’t have a master’s degre¢
not a CPA.

This is the life they have chosen, but —
its currents of unease. Nancy says, “D
a worrier. He worries inside. I’ve found s
times that he was worrying about thin,
never suspected. I think the thing he
love to do most is teach—something like
ness economics in a high school, with ¢
ing on the side. As for me—I was raise:
big old house with high ceilings and a
on two sides. That’s still my idea of a f
And another thing: we go to church her}
I’m not quite satisfied. I'd like a small ck
where I could play the organ again an
in the choir and teach Sunday school. |
all that.”

But the country churches of childhoot
not be simply wished back. In their play
Morrows have the satisfaction of succ
their chosen, urban society. Dale’s peak)
ings as a high-school graduate was his:
porary salary of $400 a month. As a gre
from a good university, he began at $1
a month (including his cost-of-living
is already up from that.

As Dale says, “I now have about a the
percent more confidence in myself. —
never could have done it without m)
behind me.”” And Nancy says, “One
nicest things about marriage is heari
husband brag about me. Dale doesn’t @
tell me his worries, but he tells me th
things.”

Their house may be small and only at
lous fraction theirs, but it performs the
service of a home: it contains a family li
in affection. This is very much their ow

= ws @& = & fe = = fe

Sse sr yr Se eo Se Se Sl |S

PRIL, 1962

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STORY OF THE DISAPPEARING MEAT LOAF

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 77

CURRY SAUCE
14 cup minced onion 4 leaspoon nuimeg
3 tablespoons butter 2 teaspoons curry
or margarine powder
14 cup flour 1 can (1334-02.)
14 teaspoon salt chicken broth
Pinch pepper

Sauté onion in butter or margarine until
golden. Blend in the flour and seasonings.
Add chicken broth and heat, stirring, until
thickened and smooth. Reduce heat and
simmer slowly, stirring occasionally, until
flavors are blended, about 14 hour. Serve
hot with veal loaf. Makes about 2 cups sauce.

RAISIN-COCONUT PILAF

1 tablespoon slivered
orange rind
1 tablespoon minced

4 cups hot cooked
rice (salted to tasle)
1 cup golden seedless

7aisins parsley
ly cup toasted coco- 1 tablespoon chopped
nul chips pimiento

Just before you remove the rice from the
pan, mix in the raisins (they'll quickly
plump up). Then toss in coconut chips. Fill
center of veal party ring with pilaf, sprin-
kle slivered orange rind, chopped parsley
and pimiento over the top to garnish.

MENU II
*HAM LOAF WITH RUBY GLAZE
GREEN PEAS IN
ARTICHOKE BOTTOMS
DILLED NEW POTATOES
LADYFINGERS WITH ICE CREAM
AND BUTTERSCOTCH SAUCE
COFFEE OR TEA

HAM LOAF WITH RUBY GLAZE
2 eggs 1 leaspoon dry
2 cups soft fresh mustard
white-bread crumbs 1 pound grouna
34 cup water ready-to-eat ham
1 teaspoon salt 1 pound ground
ly teaspoon pepper pork shoulder
2 tablespoons 1 cup canned whole-
minced onion cranberry sauce
2 tablespoons
chopped parsley

Beat eggs and add bread crumbs, water,
salt, pepper, onion, parsley and dry mus-
tard. Blend well; add ham and pork and
mix thoroughly. Pack mixture into a 9” x
5” x 234” loaf pan and bake in a hot oven,
400° F., for 30 minutes. Spread cranberry
sauce over the top and continue baking for
30 minutes. To remove, turn pan on side,
and carefully work loaf onto platter, cran-
berry side up. Makes 8 servings.

MENU III
*BEEF RIBBON LOAF SQUARES
WITH SOUR-CREAM GRAVY
MARINATED-VEGETABLE SALAD
IN PIMIENTO CUPS
COMPOTE OF SUGAR-FROSTED
GREEN GRAPES AND
STRAWBERRIES
COFFEE OR TEA

BEEF RIBBON LOAF SQUARES

LOAF: 3 slices cooked

1 medium onion, bacon, minced
peeled and 1 cup soft whole-
chopped wheat-bread

2 tablespoons crumbs
chopped green 1 leaspoon salt

pepper 1 teaspoon garlic
1 tablespoon bacon salt
drippin 14 leaspoon

11% pounds ground
beef chuck

2 teaspoons minced
celery leaves

marjoram

Pinch mace

1 tablespoon Worces-
lershire sauce

2 tablespoons chili 34 cup milk

sauce 1 egg
lg teaspoon pepper
POTATO TOPPING: 2 teaspoons salt
3 cups milk 2 (31%-02.) en-

velopes dried in-
stant mashed

Pinch white pepper
4 teaspoons onion

flakes potatoes
V4 teaspoon powdered 2 egg yolks
savory 1 egg white

Milk to soften po-
laloes, if needed

Pinch mace
1 teaspoon parsley
flakes

Sauté chopped onion and green pepper in
bacon drippings until onion is golden. Then
mix well with remaining loaf ingredients.
Bake in a 914” x 914” x 2” oven-to-table
casserole (one that ill take broiler heat)
ina moderate oven, 350° F., for 30 minutes
or until loaf begins to pull from sides of
pan. Pour off drippings and save. Topping:
Meanwhile, heat 3 cups milk with season-
ings to simmering point. Remove from
heat, beat in dried instant mashed pota-
toes, then the egg yolks. If potatoes are
very stiff, add milk to make fluffy. Brush
top of baked loaf well with slightly beaten
egg white. Top with mashed potatoes,
swirling the mixture round. Place under
broiler —with the rack in the middle oven
position—just to brown and heat potatoes.

SOUR-CREAM GRAVY

2 teaspoons gravy
browner

Drippings from loaj
(aboul 4 cup)

1 cup commercial
sour cream

2 tablespoons bacon
drippings

5 tablespoons flour

1 can (10'%-02z.)
beef consommeé

Blend flour and bacon drippings, then add
remaining ingredients, except sour cream,
and heat, stirring, until thickened and
smooth. Blend in sour cream just-before
serving. Serve with Beef Ribbon Loaf
which comes to the table in its own casse-
role and is cut into squares for serving.
Makes 8-10 servings, 214 cups gravy.

MENU IV
*SOUTH-OF-THE-BORDER BEEF
LOAF
FIESTA CORN (WHOLE-KERNEL
CORN TOSSED WITH CHOPPED
GREEN PEPPER, PIMIENTO AND
SCALLIONS)

WATERCRESS, ENDIVE AND
MAN DARIN-ORANGE SALAD
MOCHA MOUSSE
COFFEE OR TEA

SOUTH-OF-THE-BORDER BEEF LOAF

4 pounds ground 1 teaspoon salt
round 1 teaspoon garlic

4 eggs salt

2 (1%-0z.) envelopes 14 teaspoon pepper
dry onion-soup mix 1 tablespoon

lg cup catchup Worcestershire
14 cup minced green sauce
pepper
\4 cup minced dill GARNISH:
pickle Pimiento strips
1 cup commercial Sliced hard-cooked
sour cream egg

6 slices bread soaked
mn 1 cup milk and
then squeezed
almost dry

Parsley

Mix all ingredients together thoroughly,
making sure to work the bread in well.
Shape into loaves in two 9” x 5” x 234” loaf
pans and bake in a moderate oven, 350° F.,
for 1 hour. Pour off any drippings and save
for soup. Turn loaves out on a platter,
garnish top with pimiento strips, sliced
hard-cooked egg, if you like, and sprigs of
parsley. Makes 12-15 servings (some for
leftovers too). END

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

EASTER FEAST AFTER CHURCH

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 78

SWEET POTATOES
IN ORANGE CUPS

1% teaspoon vanilla

yy. 14 cup hot milk

io Gooped: outlorange
halves (save fruit
and juice)

12 marshmallows

4 pounds sweet
potatoes, washed

1% 6 teaspoons salt
{4 teaspoon pepper

i cup butter or
margarine

For an easy Easter Day, cook the potatoes
the day before. Peel and mash while still
hot. Add seasonings, butter or margarine,
vanilla and milk. You may not need all the
milk; potatoes should be light and fluffy but
not wet. Pile the mixture into the orange
halves. Arrange in a roasting pan or on a
baking tray. Cover with saran or alumi-
num foil and refrigerate overnight. About
half an hour before serving time, remove
cover, make an indentation in top of each
serving of potato and put in a marshmal-
low. Bake in a moderate oven, 350° F.,
15-20 minutes until potatoes are heated
through and marshmallows golden. Makes
12 servings.

Note: Scoop fruit from orange halves
and discard membrane. Save fruit and
juice to use for dessert. Cut a decorative
edge round the tops of the orange cups,
if you wish.

ASPARAGUS, PETIT PEAS AND
MUSHROOM CASSEROLE

2 (15-0z.) cans green 34 cup grated sharp

asparagus Cheddar cheese
2 (1-lb.) cans petit 1 cup soft white
peas bread crumbs

2 tablespoons melted
butler or margarine

1 can (101%-0z.)
cream-of-mushroom
soup

Chill the cans of asparagus 2-3 hours to
prevent breaking on opening. About 40
minutes before serving time, open and
drain. Arrange half the asparagus in a but-
tered 6-cup casserole. In a bowl, mix gently
the peas, soup and cheese. Spoon half the
mixture into casserole. Add remaining as-
paragus, top with remaining peas. Toss
crumbs with butter and sprinkle on top of
casserole. Bake in a moderate oven, 350° F.
for about 30 minutes or until crumbs are
golden. Makes 8-10 servings.

-FAITH AND, FEELOWSEME

CHARLESTON DINNER ROLLS

3 cups sifted flour
11% teaspoons salt
Y cup butter or

14 cup water
1 tablespoon suge
2 packages active

margarine dry yeast
ly cup evaporated 3 eggs, slightly ©
milk beaten

Sift 11% cups flour and the salt into a boy
Heat the butter or margarine, milk, wat
and sugar to lukewarm. Add the yeast, ]
stand 2-3 minutes, stir to dissolve. Ac
yeast mixture to flour. Mix well, beat un
smooth. Cover and let stand in a war
place for 20 minutes. Add eggs and rema
ing 14 cups flour. Beat vigorously. Kng
the dough in the bowl until smooth a
satiny. Add a little more flour if coma
too sticky to handle. Cover and let rise u
til doubled in bulk, about 1 hour. Wh
dough is risen, knead down lightly a
divide into 24-30 pieces. Form into 11
balls and place in greased muffin pat
Cover and let rise until doubled in si
Bake in a hot oven, 425° F., for 10-15 m
utes or until golden. Makes 24-30 rolls,
Note: Rolls may be baked, wrapped |
aluminum foil and stored overnight, thi
reheated in foil about 10 minutes 1
moderate oven, 350° F., before serving. |

ORANGE-BLOSSOM DESSERT

Few drops almo,
flavoring

3 egg whites

Drained canned —
pears and apri¢
(pitted), seeded
black and green
grapes, thawed|
frozen blueberr}

strawberries |

9 cups orange juice,
fresh or frozen
(diluted according
to can directions)

16-1 cup sugar

6 envelopes un-
flavored gelatin

214 cups canned
apricot nectar

Heat 2 cups orange juice, sugar acco d
to taste and the gelatin ina saucepan. ¢ 4
until gelatin dissolves. Mix with remain
7 cups orange juice and the apricot nec!
Add almond flavoring. Whip egg whi i
buzz in blender until very frothy. Stir
whites into fruit juices. Pour mixture 1
a 3-quart mold. Chill until firm—at l¢
5-6 hours or overnight. Unmold on la
platter and arrange fruit round the bi
Makes 10-12 servings.

SAVED
OUR DYING CHURCH” i

For the Reverend Philip Clarke and his
wife Sara, Easter Sunday is far more than
the celebration of the religious anniver-
sary; it is a time for special rejoicing with
congregation, relatives and their own small
children. As Philip conducts the Easter-
morning service for 300 or more in one of
the loveliest churches in New York City,
he will surely be thinking back to the dark
days five years ago when he and his young
bride, Sara, first saw the Park Avenue
Methodist Church. “Most difficult—only
a handful of parishioners,”’ he was warned.
Could he prevent this beautiful old church
from fading into the oblivion that has been
the fate of so many others in New York?
There was even talk of disbanding the con-
gregation and selling the property! Would
a modern apartment house or a skyscraper
of steel and glass soon replace the 125-
year-old place of worship?

Philip Clarke has been equal to the chal-
lenge —though he readily admits to having
had many doubts in those early days. Ina
short time, with the help of several dedi-
cated, devout laymen, he has tripled the
congregation and completely restored the
Florentine interior of the church. Old

members brought friends and neighboy
worship on Sunday mornings, newcor
dropped in to hear Philip preach—{
came again and again—and stayed to §
the ever-growing membership. His —
gregation comes from all walks of life, |
all nationalities, from all denominaty
young couples as well as older ones. *
ple have been drawn to our church,”
Philip. ““We feel they come here becayj
is like the one back home—they find SI
town warmth and friendship and spir|
nourishment in what can be the most 4
city in the world.”

Every Sunday, after morning servié ( :
and new members gather in the Fellow)
Hall above the church. There, over ¢
and cake, they meet and talk and a \
troduced. You might see a young cd
from Korea laughing and talking an
minute with a Wall Street attorney; ¢
of movie fame discussing the church |
with two young fathers. The room is t
to overflowing.

Few people can realize what it tak
revive a dying church in a city like
York; in the spirit of Easter, this on
risen as if from the dead.

Mey

Bie
i

BN SWaaste <3).

Pe TIP PeePe ee eee ee ee eT) Dla ded elated POP ee
Nea! 5 oe ‘i

‘BRINGS ALONG ITS

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138

MR. DILWORTH’S
COFFEE BREAK
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 75

But Mr. Dilworth was not listening at all,
and what he was thinking of, very intently,
was a little woman in the middle fifties whose
name was Mrs. Ferguson.

When Mr. Dilworth’s wife had died nine
years ago he had assumed, and so had his
many friends in St. Louis, that his happiness
in life was at an end. Indeed, the first year
without her had been a nightmare. But Mr.
Dilworth was a brave man and for his chil-
dren’s sake he struggled against his grief. He
was not greatly concerned about the two boys
who were away at school, but the little girl
was only eleven and his heart ached for her.
It became his principal ambition to make her
happy. Eventually he succeeded and by that
time he and Mary were very close to each
other. So close that when he went away on a
business trip, as he frequently had to do, he
missed her. The days were no difficulty. He
always enjoyed the board meetings or confer-
ences that took him to New York, but the
evenings were very tedious.

They hadn’t always been. He and his wife
had had many good friends in New York and
when he returned there for the first time after
her death, he called the dearest of them. He
was received with love and sympathy and
spent a very happy evening discussing his
present situation with two understanding
people. On several subsequent visits to New
York, he spent similar evenings, but then a
change occurred. On one of his visits he dis-
covered that a fourth had been added. And
the fourth proved to be a very attractive young
woman. She was gay, and played good bridge,
and Mr. Dilworth thoroughly enjoyed his
evening with her. But on his next visit she
was also present; and on his next she was not
only present, but took to calling him at his
hotel and being insistent about further plans
of her own.

Mr. Dilworth was a modest man, but he
supposed that he was as attractive as most
men of fifty-four, which he then was. And he
was a realist. He knew that to a young woman
who was free to marry—and this young
woman had recently been divorced—his con-
siderable wealth would be no deterrent.

Mr. Dilworth took prompt and simple ac-
tion. On his next visit to New York he did not
call his dear friends. Nor did he stay at the
hotel at which he had stayed for twenty-five
years. Instead, he stayed at a little hotel of
which he had never before heard. On subse-
quent trips to New York he slipped into and
out of town without letting anyone know that
he had been there.

But the evenings were very tedious indeed.
And then one night as he was eating his lonely
dinner, he realized that there was no law
against his going to a theater alone. It was at
a theater that he had met Mrs. Ferguson.

ryn

The play was very moving. When the curtain
fell on the first act, he found himself wishing
that there was someone that he could talk to
about it. He turned and inspected his neigh-
bor at the left. He found a rather plump man
who looked uncomfortable and puzzled. He
glanced at his neighbor at the right, and saw
a little woman who had just removed a tear
from her eye. She was certainly not less than
fifty, she wore glasses when the lights were
down, and she was obviously a lady.

“Its that kind of play, isn’t it?” said Mr.
Dilworth.

She smiled at him and spoke without eager-
ness or shyness. “*Yes indeed. And I’m agree-
ably surprised.”

Now he was surprised, for the play was a
hit. ““You didn’t expect to like it?”

She smiled again. ““No. My students all told
me that it was a ‘tender’ play and that usually
means that it’s something that makes my hair
stand on end.”

“IT know exactly what you mean,” he said.
“My oldest son persuaded me to read Kafka
last summer.”

He had intended to go out and smoke a
cigarette between the acts, but suddenly the
lights went down in the house, and the curtain
went up again. It was the pleasantest inter-

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

mission that he had spent in two years, and he
found himself hoping that the little woman:
also smoked.

He turned to her as soon as the curtain fell
on the second act. “Do you smoke?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He was very disappointed and evidently
looked it, for she said at once and as simply
as if she had been saying it to him for years,
“But if you want to, I'll come out to the lobby
with you.” j

When the buzzer rang at the end of the
intermission, they had exchanged a good deal
of information about themselves. He knew
that her husband had died many years ago,
That both of her children were in the twenties
and that the daughter was married. And she
knew considerably more than that about him,
Mr. Dilworth was a rather reserved persqa,
but Mrs. Ferguson was such a good listeng r
that he talked to her freely and with great e
joyment. The buzzer surprised him and he
looked at her ruefully. “I haven’t even had
time to tell you about my daughter!”

She laughed and they turned back into the
theater.

Wien the final curtain had fallen, Mr. Dil-
worth helped Mrs. Ferguson with her coat,
then said, “I wonder if I could persuade yo
to go somewhere and have a bite with me.”

Mrs. Ferguson hesitated. “It depends,”’ she
said finally, ““on where the somewhere is. 1]
don’t like noisy places.”

“Neither do I,” said Mr. Dilworth hastily.
And then he laughed. “I’ve been thinking
about it all during the act. I think the Palm
Court at the Plaza would be the quietest place
in New York.”

Mr. Dilworth was right. The pleasant room
was only half filled and most of the tables were
occupied by people who were chatting in low
voices. He and Mrs. Ferguson found a table
in a corner and settled themselves comfortably,

Mr. Dilworth had meant to begin with his
present problem about Mary. Instead he begar
with himself. He told her how pleasant his
trips to New York used to be when his wife
was alive; how they had never failed to look
forward to seeing new plays and old friends
Then he told her how he dreaded his presen:
trips to New York with their dullness anc
loneliness. j

“The theater,” he said, “has been an ab
solute salvation for me. But you don’t alway:
want to go to a theater. Sometimes you wan
to have a quiet evening reading.” ij

“Do you like to read?” ; P

“Very much,” said Mr. Dilworth, and ther} ”
he smiled. “I know there’s a legend to the ef
fect that businessmen never read, but I do
And my wife did. Reading was an importan
part of our life together. And I suppose that’
the trouble. I simply cannot read alone int
hotel room.” i.

Mrs. Ferguson nodded sympathetically P|
“No,” she said. “If you’re used to reading witl}*””
someone, it’s very hard to get used to readin
alone. It can be done, but it takes a long timé
In the meanwhile, what’s happened to you,
old friends?” j

Then Mr. Dilworth told her about his up
happy experience with the young divorcet
and Mrs. Ferguson was amused. |

“But I think it would be perfectly safe t
call your friends now. The girl’s probably mary”
ried again by this time. And in any case, yo) *'
owe it to your friends to call them when yo
come to New York.” :

“It occurred to me that I should,” said Mi}
Dilworth, “but it also occurred to me that
might find myself in the same situation Ww
someone else.” z

Mrs. Ferguson thought for a moment. ~
you have three good friends, mightn’t you ca’
a different one each month, and rotate them)”
Only a very optimistic young woman woul,
think that she could capture a man whol
she only saw every third month, and then on!
at a bridge table!”

“You're absolutely right,” said Mr. Di
worth. He contemplated his future with son
pleasure. “If I go to the theater one evenin)
and spend another evening with friends, thi)
will leave only one evening in which to |
bored. This is an enormous improvement
He looked at her and laughed. “Or can y} “
make a suggestion about the third evening’

APRIL, 1962

She smiled. “If you belong to a club, I can.”
“I belong to the University Club, but I
| haven’t been in it since my wife died. We often
had dinner there,”’ he said, “‘and I suppose it
| simply hasn’t occurred to me to go there
} alone.”

“My thought,’ said Mrs. Ferguson, “is
that you could stay at the club instead of the
hotel. And then, if you wanted to read, you
could read in the library, where other people
are doing the same thing. I hear that it has
one of the best libraries in town.”

Mr. Dilworth looked at her with admira-
) tion. “It has,” he said. “It also has a very
| pleasant bridge room—in case I wanted to
have a game of bridge with no attractive
) young females at the table. Much as I like
attractive young females!”

This should have led immediately to Mary.
) Instead it evoked from Mrs. Ferguson the in-

formation that she certainly liked the attrac-
) tive young females whom she taught at Bar-
/nard College. And the word “college” re-
minded Mr. Dilworth that his eldest son was
| doing badly in English and history, two sub-
| jects which he felt were very important to a
young man who, he hoped, would be a lawyer.
ae discussion that ensued was interesting
) both to Mr. Dilworth and to Mrs. Ferguson,
) but it was also very lengthy. When it was
‘finished, Mrs. Ferguson said, “I must go
home. It is almost one o’clock, and I have a
| nine-o’clock lecture.”

“Good heaven!”’ said Mr. Dilworth. “Well,
Ill take you home in a cab.”

| AMERICAN
/ CANCER

| SOCIETY:

“Indeed you won’t. I'll take myself home
‘na subway.”
“A subway? At this hour? Nonsense! Of
sourse I'll take you in a cab!”
) She smiled. “I live at West 120th Street.”
‘y) “Good!” said Mr. Dilworth.
“))| That had been seven years ago when Mary
as thirteen. Now she was in her junior year
st Vassar and was a beautiful, charming and
iccomplished young woman. And much of
ner charm and many of her accomplishments
Whe owed to Mrs. Ferguson, of whom she had
‘ever heard.
“® All Mr. Dilworth’s children owed a good
Ky veal to Mrs. Ferguson, but it was Mary who
»wed most. This was partly because she was
ne youngest, but chiefly because, being a girl,
he posed problems that Mrz Dilworth could
‘ot solve.

He said to Mrs. Ferguson on that first night
Ws they rode uptown, “I don’t know what it
,, but she doesn’t look pretty any more.”

Mrs. Ferguson thought for a moment. “Is
er complexion bad?” she said finally.
“No, she has lovely skin. It’s something

“®bout her hair. She’s doing something queer
*")) it. And then her clothes aren’t as nice as
“Dhey used to be.”
“Who buys her clothes?”
'“One of the maids always goes with her.
“ut I think she must have poor taste. But it’s
ot only the way Mary looks. There’s some-
jing strange going on. She used to speak so
eetly. and now there’s something rough
dout her and she uses slang all the time. I
“}ippose I should have got a governess for her
» all my friends told me I should, but it’s
0 late now. She’ll be going to high school in
Nother year.”
Mrs. Ferguson again thought for a moment.
think you must find a very good English
»verness,”’ she said, “and then introduce her
a housekeeper.”

ventually Mrs. Ferguson found and Mr.
Iworth introduced Mrs. Purdom, who was
_ authentic genius. She could cook, sew,
eak French, ride a bicycle without touching

139

the handlebars, play the piano, polish silver,
do needlepoint, petit point and whatever else
you had in mind, arrange flowers, keep an eye
on the accounts, tie white ties and black ties
for young gentlemen, and listen with intelli-
gence and understanding to the complicated
problems of a little girl of thirteen.

Thinking of Mrs. Purdom’s abilities and of
how successfully she had transferred many of
them to Mary, Mr. Dilworth smiled, sitting
there in the board room.

The chairman saw the smile, and supposing
that Mr. Martin must have said something
witty which he had missed, decided to pay
closer attention. Mr. Martin, who had already
gone on far too long, also saw the smile and
decided with pleasure that it was safe to con-
tinue. The board, seeing the chairman’s
quickened interest, decided that something
important was, after all, being said. So there
was a sudden tensing around the table as men
began to pay full attention.

What on earth shall I do without her? Mr.
Dilworth asked himself. But it was not Mrs.
Purdom that he was thinking of. And a whole
year! He thought back over the past seven
years. Apart from the summer that he and
Mary had spent in Europe, he couldn’t re-
member a single month in which he hadn’t
seen Mrs. Ferguson. And in the last two or
three years there had been very few weeks in
which he hadn’t talked to her. He had fallen
into the habit of telephoning her to discuss
various problems as they arose.

Sometimes he would call her at her apart-
ment quite late at night when they could talk
without interruption. Those conversations he
particularly enjoyed, but he also enjoyed talk-
ing to her when she was in her office at Bar-
nard, She had given him her lecture schedule
so he knew when he could find her in the office
and nothing amused him more than to dis-
cover that he had interrupted a conference
with one of her students. On those occasions,
and only on those occasions, she greeted him
without cordiality, for she was a real teacher
and wished to protect her students’ rights to
her undivided attention.

This morning she had been alone, and had
greeted him very cheerfully. No, she couldn't
have dinner tonight, she was still correcting
the midterm papers. Yes, she could have din-
ner tomorrow night. They had chatted pleas-
antly for a few moments and then the bomb
had exploded. She was sailing for England on
Saturday and would be there for the best part
of the year.

“But how can you be! I mean, what about
Barnard?”

“It’s my sabbatical. I told you I was starting
it on the fourth.”

She had, but it hadn’t seemed very im-
portant to him because he knew that she was
going to sit quietly in her apartment and write
the book she had been gathering material for.

“That was my plan, but two marvelous
things happened on the same day! A friend
of mine who lives at Oxford invited me to
come over and write my book at her house.
And a new man at Columbia offered me a
handsome sum for renting my apartment for
the year. I'll be able to afford a few weeks
on the Continent before I come home!”

Mr. Dilworth had not always been a mil-
lionaire, but he had been wealthy for so long
that he had forgotten that there were people—
friends of his, that is—who had to think before
they spent a dollar. He had fallen into the
habit of associating poise and good manners
with the possession of money, and so he had
been slow to realize that Mrs. Ferguson was
not well off. She had never told him that this
was the case, but over the years he had ac-
cumulated a good deal of evidence that it was.
The first bit was the coat with which he had
helped her the night they had met. It was a
black cloth coat and was perfectly good look-
ing, as all her clothes were. But as they left
the theater and stepped into a bitterly cold
night, it occurred to him that a fur coat would
have been more appropriate. Eventually he
realized that Mrs. Ferguson had no fur coat.
She had, in fact, for the first four winters of
their acquaintance only the black coat. He had
become so used to it that the first night she
appeared in a substitute he had been rather

CONTINUED ON PAGE 141

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artled. But more impressive than the matter
> the coat was the list of things that Mrs.
erguson had never done. She had never
layed golf, been in a night club, owned a car,
longed to a club, owned a television set,
layed any card game, been at any of the re-
prts at which Mr. Dilworth was accustomed
» spending a few weeks every year. Nor, until
e met Mr. Dilworth, had she been in any
shionable restaurant in New York.
None of this troubled Mr. Dilworth. He was
ware that the life of an intellectual, and es-
jally the life of an intellectual who happens
» be a college professor, a widow and the
other of two children, is necessarily quite
ike the life of a very successful industrialist.
hinking of Mrs. Ferguson’s life, as he often
d, he approved it. She had worked hard and
sen successful. She was a full professor at
arnard, and had established such a reputa-
on in her field, which was English history
. the nineteenth century, that she had been
\vited to lecture at most of the great univer-
ies in the United States. But it did trouble
Ir. Dilworth that a person who had been
iccessful, and of whom he had become very
nd, lacked the creature comforts.
Mrs. Ferguson was a Bostonian by birth.
ut though she was a proper Bostonian in
any ways, she had a defect. She hated the
bid! And the cold that she hated most she
ad endured in England when she had been
udying at Oxford. And now, thought Mr.
ilworth angrily, she is voluntarily going to
«pose herself to almost a year of discomfort
» that she can save herself a few hundred dol-
rs. Enough to give her a few weeks’ enjoy-
sent on the Continent. He pictured her sitting
a large, cold dining room, eating discourag-
g food, then walking across the hall into a
rge, cold drawing room where she would be
ven wretched coffee before a little coal fire
at gave out almost no heat. She would sit
. one side of the fireplace and her hostess
ould sit at the other. And they would talk.
nd presently the Englishwoman would feel
iat the room had become stuffy, and would
*t up and open something. And then new
»ld would be added to the old cold. And her
ostess would resume her seat and they would
) on talking. And no matter how long they
ed, Mrs. Ferguson would give no sign that
e was suffering, because she was a valiant
oman.
Mr. Dilworth smiled again. Mentally this
ime because it occurred to him that the word
aliant,’” whether applied to a man or a
oman, suggested something superb. And
Irs. Ferguson was not superb. Physically,
iat is, he hastened to add to himself, for in
hany ways she was superb. Who, for instance,
ew as much, was as modest as Mrs. Fer-
son? Whose manners were as good? Who
ad as keen a wit or as large a sense of humor?
0 listened with more eagerinterest to every
etait that you cared to tell her? Who, in spite
* her New England reserve, had more real
armth? Who, in fact, was as lovable as Mrs.
erguson?
Mr. Dilworth had reached this exact point
his thoughts when he saw the light. Mrs.
erguson was not only lovable, she was loved.
e had probably been in love with her for
pars, but in his mind love was so associated
ith the feeling that he had had for his first
ife’s youth and beauty and grace that it
adn’t occurred to him that love could come
. any other guise.
Good heaven ! he said to himself, and though
2 Said it silently his face betrayed his aston-
ent.
The chairman, although he had been listen-
g intently, had never taken his eyes from
r. Dilworth’s face. And as he saw Mr. Dil-
orth’s look of astonishment, he said to him-
If, By the Lord Harry, he’s not even listening!
or in the last minute Mr. Martin had been
ading a paragraph from the financial report
f a competitor company, with every line of
hich every man at the table was perfectly
miliar.

ihe chairman wa’ ten years younger than
Ir. Dilworth. He had followed his career for
lany years with interest and admiration. He
Tved with him on two other boards, and

therefore had the pleasure of listening to him
very frequently. And never since he had known
Mr. Dilworth had he known him to be at a
loss. He suspected that Mr. Dilworth could
extricate himself from any difficulty; but as
Mr. Dilworth was usually listening when he
was sitting at a meeting, this had never been
proved. The chairman realized that he now
had a unique opportunity, and he determined
to take advantage of it. When Mr. Martin
finally stopped and sat down, he did so.
“Mr. Dilworth, what is your opinion?”

The chairman to his great delight saw a look
of bewilderment cross Mr. Dilworth’s face,
and then slowly, very slowly, Mr. Dilworth
got to his feet, looked round the table and
smiled. ““Gentlemen,” he said, looking at his
watch, “‘it is now exactly nineteen minutes to
five. We have been here talking since two
o’clock. And my opinion is that we have
reached a moment at which we have got to
make a decision!”

Heads nodded around the table.

“But the decision that we are going to make
can either make us or lose us a very great deal
of money. So it is important that we bring to
this decision the greatest possible mental
acuity. I therefore move, Mr. Chairman, that
we avail ourselves of the privilege which we
all extend to our secretaries and take a fifteen-
minute coffee break.”

At meetings of this board, coffee was always
available. At a table in the corner of the room,
left of the chairman, stood an electric coffee-
maker, surrounded by ten little cups, and
theoretically any board member could at any
time take a cup of coffee. In practice no one
had ever done so during a meeting. So when
Mr. Dilworth made his motion, all the mem-
bers except the chairman leaped to the con-
clusion that Mr. Dilworth wanted to do a little
electioneering before the matter under discus-
sion came to a vote.

Mr. Dilworth’s motion was greeted by a
little ripple of laughter, but immediately
after by a chorus of seconds. The chairman,
smiling good-naturedly, said, ““And so or-
dered.”

And now, said the chairman to himself as
they all pushed back their chairs, the old fox
will find out what we’ve been talking about. But
to his surprise, and that of the entire board,
Mr. Dilworth had already slipped out.

Mrs. Ferguson always left her office
promptly at five. Sometimes she went straight
home, but more often she went somewhere
for tea. And Mr. Dilworth was determined to
get in touch with her while he still could. He
hurried through the outer offices to the corri-
dor and down the corridor to the elevators.
Here he waited for what seemed to him an
interminable time. But finally a down elevator
stopped and took him to the first floor. Here
he lost two full minutes looking for a tele-
phone booth, but he still had thirteen minutes
to spare when Mrs. Ferguson’s pleasant voice
said “Hello.”

Mr. Dilworth wasted no time in establishing
his identity. “Ellen,”’ he said, “forgive me for
disturbing you again, but there’s something
I’ve got to tell you.”

“You sound agitated,’ said Mrs. Ferguson
solicitously.

“Tam. Very. And small wonder. Ellen, I’ve
just discovered that I’m in love with you.”

““Good heaven!”’ said Mrs. Ferguson. Then
firmly, after a second, ““You can’t be!”

“The wonder,” said Mr. Dilworth, “‘is that
I didn’t know it years ago.”

“How do you know it now?”

“That’s a long and amusing story which I
look forward to telling you. But I haven’t time
now; I’ve got to get back to the board meet-
ing.”

“The board meeting? You mean it’s still
going on?”

“Not exactly. I persuaded them to have a
fifteen-minute recess, but I used up almost
five minutes finding a telephone. Ellen, will
you marry me?”

**Howard, I ——”

“T won’t bother telling you what I can offer
you, because you know already. If you come
to think of it, there’s very little that either of
us doesn’t know about the other. But what
gave me courage to call you and gives me hope
that if I stop talking you will say ‘Yes’ is that

you have been seeing me pretty constantly for
the last seven years. And it can’t always have
been because you wanted to help me—or
could it? Are you that kind? I suppose you
are. Well, all right, in that case let me point
out a few things to you. For instance, Mary
will probably be married in the next year or
so and I couldn’t possibly think of all the
things that ought to be thought of. And even if
Mrs. Purdom could, I couldn’t put her in the
receiving line, could I? And I haven’t the
courage to tell Ruth and Jack that they’re
spoiling their child. You’ve told so many girls
how to behave that you could surely tell Ruth,
if you were her stepmother-in-law. And you
might be able to persuade Billy not to get mar-
ried until he’s old enough to drive a car safely.
All this sounds as if I expected you to live in
St. Louis, but of course I don’t. Not at once, I
mean, and not for the whole year. My idea

THE TEAR VIAL

BY SARA KING CARLETON

This is the letter that | did not
write,

Not yesterday, but yesterdays ago,

Confessing how beyond the
common height

You seemed to me with things | did
not know,

Aloof and wise; and now | pour my
years

Into a fragile bottle. Can they tell,

Who dug it from the earth, that only
tears

Could be caught in it? Maybe joy as
well.

So small, so green, and compassed
by one hand,

But all my life is here held to the
light,

Along with what | did not
understand—

This is the letter that | could not
write

Because | was so young, too young
and shy

Of what | had then. ... It needs no
reply.

would be that when you get back from your
sabbatical, which I will spend with you wher-
ever you like, we could take an apartment in
New York during the term and that you would
spend the vacations and an occasional week-
end in St. Louis. But these are all details
that we could go into later on, and as I always
say to the head of a company with which I
am preparing to merge, anything that is
mutually beneficial can probably be arranged
through discussion. Ellen, the last time, the
only other time that I asked anyone the ques-
tion that I asked you a moment ago, I think
I put everything more persuasively. But on that
occasion I was sitting on a sofa with Mar-
garet’s hand in mine. Just now I am in a tele-
phone booth and there’s a rather large man
with a cigar leaning against the door waiting
for me to finish, and somehow I can’t say
the things I looked forward to saying.”

By the way of reply Mrs. Ferguson laughed
her warm, hearty laugh, and then there was a
brief pause before she said in a hesitant voice,
“Howard, I really don’t think ” and then
there was another pause, and she said in a
voice of pure astonishment, “I think I’d love
to marry you.”

“Thank God!” said Mr. Dilworth.

“But there are a great many details that
would have to be worked out. Important ones
too. For instance, have you told any of your
children anything about me?”

“No,” said Mr. Dilworth. “I was afraid
they’d think’ — he broke off as the absurdity

141

of what he was about to say struck him, and
he gave a snort of laughter—‘“‘I was afraid
they’d think there was something romantic
between us.”

“That’s exactly what I thought, but it’s
not going to make it easier to tell them. I
suppose they’ll all resent our marrying.”

“T shouldn’t wonder!” said Mr. Dilworth
cheerfully. But then he said, ““No, on second
thought, they'll all be delighted! After all,
we’re both making a very good match.”

“That’s what we think, but will they?”

“T was thinking of it from their point of
view. I will be bringing a scholar into the
family, something we’ve never had before,
and you will be bringing a millionaire into
yours. It will give them all additional prestige.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “up they go on
the status ladder.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Dilworth.
you've got to have dinner with me.”

“Yes, I think so. What time will your meet-
ing be finished?”

“Very soon now, I think. Everyone seemed
pleased when I said the time had come to
make a decision.”

“What are you deciding?”

“T have no idea! When I got to the meeting,
Mr. Thompkins was making some brilliant
suggestions about enlarging the plant at Blairs-
ville. But when he finished his report, I
stopped listening and began to think of you.
And that brings me to the present!”

“Ellen,

-
ale: chairman was in excellent spirits. In
the first place, it was almost certain that the
board would adopt Mr. Thompkins’s pro-
posals. Moving about from group to group,
during the brief recess, he had counted the
votes and found that there were six in favor
and only three opposed. And even if Mr. Dil-
worth was opposed—hardly likely, as he was
usually on the side of the angels—it was most
unlikely he would be able to change enough
votes to obstruct the expansion.

In the second place, as none of the other
members had left the room with Mr. Dilworth
it was quite certain that he would return to it
as ignorant of what had gone on at the meeting
as he had been when he left. And the chairman
had evolved a very neat little plan for exposing
Mr. Dilworth’s ignorance. Not to the other
board members, of course. He liked Mr. Dil-
worth too much for that. But he looked for-
ward with relish to the moment when he
would, in his own phrase, “smoke the old fox
out of his hole.”

Mr. Dilworth entered the room exactly one
minute before the fifteen minutes had expired.
He paused, and said something to a board
member named Anderson, who looked like
Calvin Coolidge, and who greatly resembled
him in other ways. For a moment the chair-
man was fearful, but then he realized that
even the laconic Mr. Anderson could hardly
describe Mr. Thompkins’s plan, and the
board’s comments on it, in sixty seconds.

““Mr. Anderson,” said Mr. Dilworth, “I was
daydreaming during the meeting. Did we ever
discuss anything except Thompkins’s ideas
about the Blairsville plant?”

Mr. Anderson shook his head.

“Did anyone say anything out of character?”

Mr. Anderson shook his head again.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Dilworth, and
moved up to the chairman, who had beckoned
to him, and was now waiting for him with
a more than usually friendly expression.

“Mr. Dilworth,” said the chairman, “‘be-
fore we put the matter to a vote, I think that
we ought to have a summary of what the
various members have said about the pro-
posal. If I call upon you, will you be willing
to give us such a summary?”

The chairman had expected a reaction, but
he was not prepared for Mr. Dilworth’s look
of utter dismay, and he felt the pleasurable
glow of triumph.

“Indeed, no!”’ said Mr. Dilworth.

““No? May I ask why not?” said the chair-
man pleasantly.

Mr. Dilworth looked at him benevolently.
“Because it would give these assiduous men
the impression that we thought they hadn’t
been listening.”

The chairman’s glow died within him but
he managed to smile. “That hadn’t occurred
to me. Thank you.” END

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 61

remembered by some of my friends today.
“There was the most divine Irish maid,” Main-
bocher said recently, “‘serving the best tea in
the world. There was your mother’s beautiful
Georgian furniture and silver and glass—it
was like a bit of Ireland in New York.”

Mainbocher, who has had such an influence
on fashion, came to us not at all as a fashion
expert. He and my brother Victor were art
students together in Paris. My brother Tom
was in business, Desmond and Jim were at
M.I1.T., but Victor and Christine were both
budding artists. For a while I went with my
sister to Robert Henri’s class at the Art
Students’ League until I discovered I hadn’t a
vestige of talent. Then I gradually drifted into
my mother’s shop as a “helper.”

T. M. & J. M. Fox, along with houses
like Tappé, Thurn, Hickson and Bendel, was
definitely haute couture. When my mother
moved the establishment to East 57th Street,
she was moving onto the Rue de la Paix of
New York. Her customers came from all over
the country, always by appointment, and they
paid prices that began at $350 and went up
and up. Women like Mrs. Harold McCormick
of Chicago, Mrs. Stotesbury of Philadelphia,
Mrs. Tevis of California and Mrs. E. H. Gary
of New York seemed to spend most of their
time ordering clothes from my mother and
wearing them at various functions.

My apprenticeship in fashion was progress-
ing, if slowly. My mother took my sister and
me to the collections in Paris. At Doeuillet’s
she saw an elaborate dress that she wanted to
copy, but knew she could get the embroidery
done more cheaply somewhere else. She told
me to remember the top of the dress, Christine
the bottom. Christine’s sketch was better, but
I found that I could remember the details
exactly, that I actually had a photographic
eye for fashion when I focused it—another
invaluable asset in my career.

But when I was back in the shop I suffered
from an acute inferiority complex. I felt that
my mother knew everything and that I didn’t
know anything at all. I used to model occa-
sionally and I could always make a dab at a
customer when there was no one else there to
do it, but I was totally uninterested in follow-
ing up an order; and now that my social life
was beginning to spin around, my “work”
was an interruption.

I adored dancing. Now that I was at last
coming out of my shell, I took part in the
prewar gaiety that swept New York when
Irene and Vernon Castle introduced the maxixe
and the tango and young women in ankle-
length hobble skirts and lampshade silhouettes
first met their beaux “jinder the clock” at the
Biltmore for tea-dancing. I hadn’t “‘a pick on
my bones” and I wasn’t athletic, but I was a
good dancer, if I do say it myself, and by now
there was no lack of young men to dance
with me.

War was declared in August of 1914 and
my sister went over with the American Fund
for French Wounded long before America
entered the war. I wanted above all things to
go too. But there were difficulties about my
passport. So the next summer I got no farther
than Hyannis Port, where my mother had
taken a cottage for the summer.

L. France Christine met her fate in a fellow
war worker, Dr. Francis Holbrook. My mother
sent her.money for a Paris trousseau and
when she came home to be married we
watched her unpack with eager curiosity to
see what the French couture was doing. Chris-
tine’s wedding dress was by Chéruit. That was
approved, but one dress that Christine showed
us was a terrible letdown to my mother. It
was a simple chemise in wool jersey. It had a
collar of dubious fur. Fur with jersey ? Chris-
tine said that the designer, Chanel, was a
coming name in Paris, but no one in New
York had heard of her. My mother declared
flatly that her good money might as well have
been thrown away. “That Christine!”

As soon as my passport difficulties got
straightened out I joined the Red Cross
and crossed the torpedo-infested Atlantic, as

Christine and my brothers had done. When I
got to France I found that the canteens in
Paris were the really hardworking, needed
places. In the railroad stations the Red Cross
served coffee and food to the doughboys pass-
ing through, day and night, in a steady
stream.

Most of the girls I crossed with got them-
selves assigned to officers’ clubs, but I was
stationed at the Gare St. Lazare.

I worked until after the armistice. I brought
back to America a report I’m proud of
(“‘Indefatigable and smart as tacks’’), a sense
of achievement and a new confidence in my-
self. But back in my mother’s shop, my old
inferiority complex took over. When my
mother proposed taking me with her on a
buying trip, the only reason I wanted to go
was to get back to Paris, to the Hotel West-
minster on the Rue de la Paix where my
mother always stopped, where I had lived dur-
ing the war. Its old-fashioned rooms epito-
mized for me the romance and glamour of
Paris, already the city of my heart.

Then, if my life is a fairy tale, as I’ve often
been told, my fairy godmother appeared. A
friend named Harrydel Hallmark ran a syn-
dicated fashion column under the name “Ann
Rittenhouse.” She was too ill to go to the
collections this year and asked me if I would
like to send her some fashion notes. Here at
last was something I felt I could do. I slaved
over those notes night after night, with the
result that Harrydel was delighted with my
report. I remember I said to her, “I’d rather
be doing the work you're doing than anything
in the world.” She said, “Ill give you a letter
to Mrs. Chase, the editor of Vogue.”

Mrs. Chase was sufficiently impressed to
introduce me to Condé Nast, the publisher,
and he in turn invited me to write for the
magazine, but at this moment my mother had
a serious illness and I had to keep an eye on
the shop. It wasn’t a very clever eye, I can
tell you. But like most temporary setbacks,
this one was useful. Our workroom on 34th
Street employed 250 fitters and seamstresses
who had to be supervised. I began to learn
the architecture of clothes.

When my mother’s health improved enough
for her to come back to work, I was back in
my old subordinate position, and miserable.
I remembered how Mr. Nast had peered at
me through his pince-nez like a dapper owl.
I was on the point of calling him to ask him
if he possibly had a place for me when, with-
out any warning, he suddenly dashed into the
shop. In an hour, he said, he was sailing for
Europe, but before he left he wanted to ask
me to come to Vogue.

NEXT MONTH

WHICH ARE EASIER TO RAISE, BOYS OR GIRLS?

says columnist Art Buchwald in this special Journal |
A test pilot’s comment,
but ‘‘Girls are more fun to dress,’”’ says Ethel
Kennedy. Dr. Ashley Montagu added that girls are hardier at all ages. ;
Laugh and learn as you read it in the May Journal.

“When they cry,”
survey, “they all sound alike.”’
more than blue jeans’;

TO DELIGHT YOUR MAYTIME HEART 4
Three spring salads to grace a bridal shower, an afternoon of bridge,’

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

Can you imagine my excitement? “‘Go of
bye—so it’s settled right now, Miss White”’-
my future was settled.

| thy my first day on Vogue as an assista
fashion editor, I got myself up to kill. I we
a smart but dead-black crepe-de-chine dre
and jacket from Vionnet, the exciting ne
Paris designer whose bias cut, with its in
nitely complex sewing, was so subtle I y
proud of myself (I still am) for recognizir
that here was an artist in fabric. With it,
wore a dead-black hat and, since my moth
decreed that a lady’s stockings must mat
her gloves, naturally my shoes and stockin
were black. If I'd ordered a mourning “‘tro
seau,”’ as women still did when a membeg
the family died, I couldn’t have achieved
more somber effect.
But my effect on the Vogue office was fe
tunately lively. Mr. Nast appreciated the fe
that I’d assisted behind the scenes at the cre
tion of beautiful clothes, that I was interest
in everyone and able to get on with anyo
From the moment I arrived at Vogue t
day seldom passed without a phone call fre
my mother to check up on my performan
At dinner there would be dire predictions
my career couldn’t possibly last: “The thir.
time this week she’s been at the hairdresse
and look at her hair.’ My hair was “m
celled” in those days before permanents,
it had to be continually pressed with
tongs. I must have lived in an aura of pi
manent scorch.
My hair had turned prematurely wh
which was startling with my preternatura!
young, pink complexion, and my hairdres
was itching to experiment with dyes, but
would no more have countenanced anythi
as extreme as that than my mother would

Condé Nast, the descendant of Fret
and German ancestors, had an American §
for making money. By the time he was thir
five he was making $50,000 a year, and
the time I met him he had amassed a fo
through his publishing enterprise. Since
sensed in me something that Vogue need
he determined to mold his new fashion e¢
into a figure of fashion. He began invit}
me for weekends at his Newport estate and
wangled invitations for me to luxurious A
rondack camps. i

The fashionable were no longer confined
the old guard of society. It was Ina Cla
for instance, who really launched Chanel
America by wearing Chanel clothes in |

CONTINUED ON PAG) |

“Dresses cost

the club’s day at your house. Shrimp with water chestnuts and ajfti:

whisper of dill .
frosty green grapes .

. tender chicken chunks in creamy dressing with’) )}j
. veal-and-tongue strips julienne. i Dhe

THE QUESTIONS ADOLESCENTS ASK ABOUT SEX

Dr. Spock talks to mothers about talking to teenagers—and urgesift

honesty, common sense and a refreshing idealism.

THE GROWING YEARS

Harold Mapes’s unique daylight savings plan buys him precious com-
panionship with his five children, ages 12, 10, 8, 6 and 2. Nan and Ha

brid
5 i lo
Nir

ite

spend time, love and Hal’s varying salary ($13,666 gross last year) forfls \

the bicycles, dentist trips and music lessons their children need now,
Challenge of the future: a whopping $32,000 college bill. ““ How Spent

” 8

Spends Its Money.

Also, another installment of the Gallup survey, ““The Woman’s Mind}.
“Tell Me, Doctor’’; stories and much, much more in the May Journa

IL, 1962

1936

| Bought Maytag

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She concluded her complimentary letter to

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TE en

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143

THE MAYTAG COMPANY, NEWTON, IOWA. SOLD IN CANADA AND THROUGHOUT THE WORLD

1961

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THE EN DALL COMPANY

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 142

delightful comedies. And what Chanel did to
free fashion from elaborate stuffiness, Condé
Nast did for society. He’s supposed to have
said that when he gave the first of his famous
parties he couldn’t leave out his friend Mrs.
Vanderbilt and he couldn’t leave out his
friend George Gershwin, so he had them
both—and thus café society was born.

As the old fixed ranks gradually turned
into a wheel of fashion, the hub was the
fabulous Park Avenue penthouse which Condé
shared with his friend Frank Crowninshield,
the beloved editor of Vanity Fair.

As “Crownie”’ later said, this new society
hadn’t yet “drifted into barrooms and night
clubs and lost its chic.’ It met often in Condé’s
ballroom, which was covered with eighteenth-
century Chien-Lung wallpaper and had long
windows opening onto a covered terrace where
a hundred guests could sit down at small tables
set under flowering plants. His parties were de-
signed for the glamour he wanted reflected in
Vogue, just as his Chinese screens were designed
as backgrounds for the models who used
his mirror-paneled dressing room on sittings.

My working hours were equally glamorous
when Steichen began photographing for Vogue.
It was my job to choose the clothes to be
shown, to arrange them on the model, to
assist the photographer in any way he needed.
It was a tremendous coup to get a great
artist like Steichen to photograph fashion
(one of Condé’s talents was his ability to
attract talent) and it was my first coup that
Steichen and I immediately clicked.

We met in Condé’s apartment for our first
sitting. The model was wearing an elaborate
evening gown I had chosen. Vogue’s electrician
was there with a battery of klieg lights.
Steichen had never made a picture by arti-
ficial light before. He studied the model, the
background, the lighting, and then turned to
me. “‘Can you get me two bed sheets?”” What
the photographer wants, the photographer
gets. I raided a linen closet, we covered the
row of lights and we obliterated the glare,
allowing Steichen’s marvelously luminous
quality to come through.

Fashion as fashion was no more interesting
to him than it was to his best model—Marion
Morehouse, who is now Mrs. E. E. Cum-
mings. She was more than a clotheshorse. She
was an artist at modeling and, since she had
the most beautiful legs in the world, it was
our joint enterprise—Steichen’s and mine—
to show them off to advantage, which we
could easily do when skirts reached their all-
time high.

I always went to Steichen’s sittings with
such joy, as if I were taking the picture my-
self! His severity never frightened me—it was
all fun. And what he said to me at our last
meeting I will always treasure: “If you en-
joyed our work together, I enjoyed it twice as
much. If you learned, I learned twice as
much.”

My work under Mrs. Chase was less re-
warding because she seemed to criticize every-
thing I did. She could put you in smithereens
and, since it was only my work with Steichen
(he wouldn’t work with anyone else) that
wasn’t under her supervision, it was almost
like being back under my mother’s thumb.

I wasn’t without authority in my own de-
partment. One of the girls who worked on the
magazine described me as looking like a
Cossack under a black astrakhan hat, “with
those gimlet eyes piercing you while you
crouched at a desk in a corner of her icy
office.”” My first copywriter, Lois Long, was a
typical flapper in the early *twenties whose
heart was with Vanity Fair, if she couldn’t be
on the stage—she was continually running
off and then coming back again—but she had
a light touch that I liked.

Crownie was the custodian of Condé’s
taste, consulted by him on every question of
art or decoration. He shared my passion for
the theater and used to sit beside me at first
nights happily holding my hand. Afterward
he always took me to Hicks for an ice or a
soda.

Crownie, of course, was always at Condé’s
parties. I remember the evening he pointed
out a red-faced Englishman in a worn dinner

ee EEE —e

LADIES’ HOME JOURN

jacket talking to another man twice as t
The tall man, Crownie told me, was Li
Birkenhead. The little man was an ou
office politician named Winston Churchill y
was in America trying to sell some artic}
Some of the famous figures of the *twenil)
I met on my own. When I went to see A .}}
of Divorcement I was entranced by the you})
girl who played the part of the daughter. Hi
dark beauty of face and voice was so full)
promise (I have always been attracted by w]
I can, by some kind of Irish clairvoyar}}
foresee in an artist), I wangled an introduct}}
to Katharine Cornell. My friendship with
and her husband, Guthrie McClintic, becaj)’
very close and dear to me. Their house}
Beekman Place (which wasn’t yet ‘“‘disci)
ered’”’) was a dropping-in place, where ME
heard Gershwin play his Rhapsody in \Eiy
before it was ever played in public, b
Noel Coward brought his friends Bea Lp
and Gertrude Lawrence before they beca}t
the toasts of New York. &
il
Wien Gentlemen Prefer Blondes burst off
delighted world, I took Anita Loos under })
wing. She was literally under the wing of
tall, thin husband, John Emerson (she reac}
barely to his chest), and she claims that ft:
held onto his coattails when I took ff
around to parties, but our click was immij}]
ate and it extended even to our clothes. ji
were both dressed by Chanel, later by Mile
bocher, most recently by Balenciaga.
When I met her, her Lorelei Lee was i
pearing serially in the magazine that wai}
become the impersonal love of my life. Ajj
wrote Gentlemen Prefer Blondes originall}
a short story and sent it to H. L. Menclj\
“Little girl,”’ he warned Anita, “‘you’re mj
ing fun of sex and that’s never been diy
before in the U.S.A. I suggest you send
story to Harper’s Bazaar, where it'll be
among the ads and won’t offend anybot}))
Ray Long was the editor in charges
Hearst’s magazines and fortunately saws
story. ““Why do you stop?” he asked Ary
“You've started this girl on a trip. Go @
So, as Lorelei appeared one month in Ha 1 a
Bazaar, Anita was frantically writing the 1};
month’s installment. This was the first ] i
men had ever read the Bazaar—the news st
sales doubled, then tripled. James Joyce, we,
had begun to lose his eyesight, savediy.
reading for Lorelei Lee. And George Sal i.
yana, when asked what was the best boc bi
philosophy written by an American, answe) fr
“Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” Thi

Why does Paris have such overwhelffy
glamour for me? I think it’s because it’s};
place that worships quality: the best of eV

thing. That, of course, is why Paris lea i

world in fashion. Because the workmar
and the fabrics, as well as the designersy,
the best that can be found. Ameri a fy
plenty of talent, but American de ig) oy
haven’t that fund of auxiliary talent to Ch,
on. Manufacturers turning out whole)
dresses can’t afford the time or the risk),
volved in experimentation. Commercial }};,
sure all but stifles the spontaneity of
young. That is why we will always loo
Paris for fresh inspiration.

When I went to the collections as Voj
fashion editor I was inspired by that de
tion to quality. My first allegiance wa)
Chanel, because the freedom of her cle
was so congenial to me. I remember to’
day the first “‘little black dress” I bought
her, of chenille with a tie belt, and sleev
over the shoulder (I could wear it today). !
wonderful in it because I wasn’t even
scious of wearing a new dress, which I'v

ways hated. <
But I was also ravished by the beaut
other collections that blossomed after the
Condé told me to buy myself an evening‘
from Callot Soeurs as a present from him,
my mother was delighted with thar. Vion
subtlety of design I’ve spoken about, andy
Mainbocher, then settled in Paris as a fas
artist, took me to her collection I couldn
sist a soft almond-green crepe dress and §
and-white tweed coat that went with it.
the first time anyone came back to
with a coat whose lining matched the d

and it made a sensation. ‘

\PRIL, 1962

| One of my missions on this first trip was to
\yersuade Mainbocher (as he now called him-
elf) to head the French office of Vogue. I
yasn’t successful on my first try—Main has
ilways had a healthy respect for the value of
1is work and won’t settle for less!—but our old
jriendship was renewed, and he also took me to
jwo new houses, Louiseboulanger and Au-
ustabernard, which he admired and hoped I
vould patronize.

f Louise Boulanger made a remark to me that
iny mother adored. “The day tennis came in,”

the said sourly, “the demimondaine went out,

ind fashion with her.’ She was thinking of

ne cumbersome, luxurious clothes that only
Houses like T. M. & J. M. Fox could copy; and
if course fashion has never, I suppose, been
he sole purpose of a woman’s life since the
Jay of the demimondaine.
} It was in Paris that I finally decided to cut
hy hair. Of course I went to Antoine, the
lairdresser of the day. I wasn’t a very impor-
int patron then. He kept looking around the
pom at his titled customers while he snipped
ind I shivered. “Pas trop court, M. Antoine!”
| kept protesting, to absolutely no avail. I
japped my hat over my shorn head, hurried
lack to the Hotel Westminster, and went to
ied that night without daring to look in the
\irror.

There was a long mirror facing my bed.
Vhen I woke up the next morning I knew I
md to face the music. Slowly I sat up and
joked at my reflection. My relief when I saw
-was “all right” —M. Antoine hadn’t won his
putation for nothing—floods me again to-
ny when I think of that moment. I'd been
raid I’d die of shame.

» Now I could get proper hats to go with my
nanel suits. The “proper hat’’—a cloche—
suld come only from Reboux. Dressmakers
ve taken over the making of hats now, to go
ith their costumes, but the techniques had
be learned from modistes like Reboux and
gnes. Similarly, nobody used dressmaker
‘fume until Chanel came out with her fa-
ps “No. 5.” Every dressmaking house sells
jrfume and costume jewelry now, but Coco
panel was the innovator.
She was not only an innovator. She was—
id is—her own best model. Her stance—hips
|

rward, foot forward, hand in pocket—dem-
istrates the ease of her swinging skirts and
Wows the athleticism of her compact little
idy. She wasn’t a jockey in her youth, as has
en said of her, but when she urges you, as
> frequently does, to squeeze her buttocks,
ui find they’re as hard as a cement ball. She
mes of peasant stock, which makes her very

sant soup—and when she was discovered
the Duke of Westminster she was singing
tough songs of the Bal Musette in a café
wmtant outside Paris. The duke introduced
to yachting, which was his life. One day

; owes it blew up suddenly chill, Coco bor-
‘Bved, his reefer to throw around her shoul-
@s—and another “Chanel look” was born.
mn the ’twenties Schiaparelli was still un-
2wn, though Anita Loos was launching her

by wearing the black-and-white sweaters that
started Scap on her sensational career. The
first couturier to recognize the value of pub-
licity was Patou. He made a great stir by hold-
ing a competition for American girls to model
his clothes in Paris. Most of Patou’s models
married titles or wealth. Before them none
was famous, as later models like Bettina and
Suzy Parker became famous, though Hebe,
the beautiful English girl who modeled for
Lucile and Molyneux (and who was dipped in
iodine when the ‘‘tan’’ became fashionable),
was known outside the profession.

I was in my thirties when I went to Vogue.
Though my life was exciting and rewarding, it
began to look as if I would never “settle
down” into matrimony. I longed to have chil-
dren, but my maternal instinct was partially
satisfied by my brother Tom’s daughters,
Nancy and Carmel (named for me), for whom
I adored to buy pretty dresses. And when I
fell in love, it was with a divorcé.

1
Since: as a Catholic, I take the dictates of
my Church with great seriousness, I tried to
resolve my emotional turmoil by “spinning
around” faster and faster. A young reporter
who always called herself Jane Grant, even
after she married Harold Ross, The New
Yorker’s first editor, was a friend of mine and
I often went to the after-theater parties that
brought the “Vicious Circle” of the Algonquin
Round Table together with many celebrities
who admired, envied or feared them.

Ruby Ross, the first of the successful women
decorators, was another fateful friend of
mine. “Au Quatriéme,” the decorating shop in
John Wanamaker’s New York store, exhibited
her exquisite taste to perfection, and so did
her house on lower Fifth Avenue. The colors
of the modern chintzes and wallpapers she
used and the interesting people she drew
around her were almost equally fascinating to
me. She had a reputation for being ‘‘fast’—
my mother objected to my going to her par-
ties—but the most stabilizing influence in my
life came to me through Ruby Ross. By the
end of 1926 I was no longer ‘‘Miss White of
Vogue.”

Ruby had become engaged to a man named
Chalmers Wood who shared a house in East
Norwich that belonged to a Long Island
bachelor. When she asked me to dine with
them one early spring evening, all I knew
was that the bachelor’s name was George
Palen Snow. East Norwich seemed a long
“commute” for a New York businessman, and
though the old white frame house we eventu-
ally arrived at had charm, it looked exactly
like what it was: a bachelor establishment be-
longing to a man who cared only for sports.

We were welcomed by a servant who told us
that Mr. Snow and Mr. Wood, with another
gentleman, were out golfing but would be back
“pretty soon.” As our wait lengthened and
lengthened, Ruby began fuming at Mr. Wood
and I began fuming at Mr. Snow. When
they finally turned up, apologetic but exhil-
arated by their first golf of the season, I delib-
erately fastened my attention on the “other

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gentleman,” a man from Boston introduced
as Mr. Curtis.

We took an immediate shine to each other.
I was to learn later that he too was a divorcé
(to be expected in unattached men my age!),
but that evening we began a delightful flirta-
tion. I scarcely noticed “‘Pa,”’ as his friends
affectionately called Mr. Snow. He was tall
and good-looking, but he seemed diffident, he
had a stutter, and I was still furious with him.
When Ruby and I left he mumbled something
about seeing me again, but the only definite
engagement I went away with was to see Mr.
Curtis.

Jimmy Curtis became an assiduous beau. I
began spending most of my evenings with one
or the other of my divorced suitors, though
occasionally I allowed ‘“‘Pa’’ (whom I called
Palen then and have ever since) to take me to
dinner-dances at the Pierre.

As summer came on I found the white farm-
house in East Norwich a very attractive place
to visit on Sundays. Palen was still wedded to
outdoor pursuits—when he wasn’t golfing he
was riding or gardening—but his eagerness to
share his enthusiasms with me was terribly ap-
pealing. I’m not a natural athlete—the only
exercise I ever cared about was dancing—but
there was a boyishness about this big man in
his forties that you couldn’t resist.

I had told him that our pleasant evenings
together would have to be interrupted because
Vogue was sending me to Paris. When he
found out when I was sailing he sent me a tele-
gram: ‘May I sail onthe Mauretania with you?
Reply paid.”” My answer was prompt: “Offer
accepted.”” Our wedding was set for Armistice
Day.

Our honeymoon in Paris had to be com-
bined with business for me, a foretaste of our
life together, but Palen had consolations. The
American ambassador was a friend of the
Snows. Palen and Parmelee Herrick, the am-
bassador’s son, made expeditions together by
day, and we often dined at the embassy in the
evening.

This visit to Paris was both more private
and more formal than any visit I’ve made be-
fore or since, a good introduction to my new
life. Palen also had his business to attend to—
he was an attorney who in conjunction with his
father represented a building-loan company—
and though his house was to be our permanent

LINES FOR MY FATHER

By RUTH HULBURT HAMILTON

My father once stood outside a one-room school
In Nebraska and rang a bell to call his pupils.
In fact, they who had at first been loath to learn
Gave him the bell. Surely there is some significance in that?
Not the father | knew, but his earlier self
Lived in a covered wagon, and once in a sod house!
Under a sky pale as milk, with a windy dust blowing,
He learned kindness, practiced patience, grew up perfectly honest.
The furthest he ever strayed from absolute truth
Was when comforting a child who had night fear of barking dogs
And trains: ‘‘The dog cannot get into the house,’’ he said,
“Nor the train. Trains never leave the track.”’
It would have been more like him to have added,

‘Except on rare occasions. But even when trains leave the track,
They almost never enter houses.”’

He was a loophole leaver. ‘‘l shouldn’t wonder,’’ he would say,
Meaning | wouldn't be surprised. This had something to do
With his belief that only a fool is positive.

“Are we going to the museum tomorrow?” we would ask.

‘| shouldn't wonder.”’ This meant that barring the occurrence of
Fire, flood, famine or national disaster, we were going.
Consequently, we trusted him implicitly and were never disappointed.
Strangers noticed his limp, but we knew it didn’t stop him
From riding a bicycle. Our friends thought he looked old.

We merely thought their fathers young, and furthermore,
Their fathers never read to them.

My father once rang this bell to call his pupils.

My hand shapes to his bell as it rings his grandchildren
In from play. How he would love to know them, and

How | wish it could call him back, just for an afternoon.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL "

home, we took a hotel suite for the winter
months, as we were to do for many years. |
Naturally our friends wanted to entertain |}
us, and though Edna Chase maintained that |]
the only time I got any sleep was when I fell |}
asleep in my partner’s arms on the dance floor, |}
I maintain that if my eyes were closed, it was
in ecstasy. I’ve told you how I adored dancing;
I was in love; and when I became pregnant ~
that first spring of my marriage, my cup of |
happiness was full. lk
When the second Carmel Snow was born in |
November I was forty, and naturally I had
more difficulty than my mother had bearing —
me. But my convalescence in Miss Lippincott’s ~
Sanitarium, where a Snow would of course
have her babies, was a fete. Miss Lippincott’ sie
was just above the Colony Restaurant, ang
champagne and gourmet meals flowed upwar@ |
along with a stream of visitors. Mainboche
brought me baby clothes from Lanvin; little
Carmel’s underthings came from Fairyland ©
(babies were dressed in those days); Jessica \F
Daube, my old friend from Bendel who was |
now Bergdorf Goodman’s “Empress of Mil- ®
linery,” began her custom of making me a
“coming-out” hat for my emergence from |
pregnancy. I engaged a stylish English nanny |

g0 the minute I was let out.

When we moved to Palen’s little house at
East Norwich in the spring I really concen- #
trated on housekeeping, which I enjoy. But if ®

I first saw it: the sofas a little too big for the |
parlor, the dining room still in the same shade #!
of periwinkle blue that Palen loves. I covered
his chairs with flowered French chintzes and
crowded the tables set comfortably in the mid: #
dle of a room with the pictures of my family
and friends that I like to keep near me. Wel?
added a terrace for our lunch parties, but I}
had to move out of my bedroom to accommo
date overnight guests.

Every weekend was crammed with ene
ments. Clarence Mackay’s impromptu rece
tion for Lindbergh, the space hero of the ’20%

——ay

er his solo flight across the Atlantic, was
: most moving of all the glamorous parties
vent to. The estate itself was magnificent,
i ‘h huge fountains playing in the Versailles
\-dens, and ‘ “everyone” on Long Island ar-
jed in full evening dress to pay homage to
: tall, composed, tired young man in a
impled business suit who stood with his
‘ther beside Mr. Mackay. I don’t think
re was a dry eye in the assembly; it was an
pouring of tribute to the kind of man who
uld invite to his “gala’’ only the mechanics
jo had helped him on the field, and their
res. I saw tears literally rolling down the
eks of a notoriously hard-boiled banker
en he shook Mrs. Lindbergh’s hand.

hat, of course, was in 1927, the year “‘little
-mel”’ was born. The next year, perhaps be-
se I was combining hard work on Vogue
'h an unusually strenuous social life, I had
uiscarriage. The year after that came one of
| few serious griefs of my life, the death two

lidowed the effect of the 1929 crash, I was
reely conscious of a depression outside my

/n 1929 I had been made American editor of
rue, Mrs. Chase becoming editor in chief of
the Vogue editions, American, English,
mch and German, and I threw myself
/nkfully into this increased responsibility.
ondé had found a new art director who
‘ited to make some changes in “the book,”
ive call our magazines. The art director,
» Agha, was a Turk who was as inscrutable
_cup of black coffee to me, but I instinc-
tily felt he was right. He was trained in the
‘European style of layouts, which was a
plete departure from the static, stilted look
@ill American magazines at that time. Dr.
a wanted bigger photographs (vigorously
; orted by Steichen and me), more white
spe and modern typography.
4; 1930 my second daughter, Mary Palen,
W} born, and soon after that I had a piece
Hood luck. My old friend, Abram Poole,
in his young niece from Chicago, Frances
adden. She was to be my editorial main-

|
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stay for two happy decades. Condé made her
Vogue’s managing editor.

Her copywriter was Nancy Hale, a brilliant
young New Englander whose distinguished
literary heritage made her a little ashamed of
writing fashion copy. To keep her spirits up
she kept a memo to herself under the glass top
of her desk: “Mallarmé worked on Bon Ton.”

Clare Luce (then Clare Brokaw) was also
one of the younger contingent. I remember
how she loved cats—she had kittens embroid-
ered on all her lingerie. She, too, had literary
ambitions and soon got herself transferred to
Vanity Fair across the hall. Then there was al-
ways a debutante or two attached to the Vogue
staff. Condé had a good eye for the brightest
(and prettiest) and picked them out of the
herd at parties, notably Nancy Yuille, who is
now the Countess of Dunraven, and Eleanor
Barry, later Mrs. Allan Ryan Jr., now Mrs.
Lawrence Loman.

“Barry,’’ Lord love her, was a delight to me
from the moment I first saw her tall, long-
legged figure and sensed the infectious vitality
radiating from her lovely warm face. It’s true
that when she answered with a telegraphed Yes
this anguished query: “Dear Vogue, is it all
right for a nice girl to let a nice boy kiss her?
Please answer before Tuesday,” she was in-
vited to retire from the magazine. But she re-
mained firmly fixed in my memory.

I want to try to present the story of my leav-
ing Vogue as objectively and fairly as I can.
These are the facts. When I was approached
by Mr. Hearst’s representative and invited to
become the fashion editor of Harper’s Bazaar,
I honestly believed that Condé would be glad
to be relieved of the burden of my salary,
which, for those depression days, was consid-
erable. The salary I was offered was the same,
the title less important. I knew I would be
working with a staff far less distinguished
than Vogue’s. But since Mrs. Chase had al-
ready proposed I be demoted to society ed-
itor, I felt I was no longer necessary to Vogue.

Once more I was about to have a baby.
For Palen’s sake I was desperately eager to

»*

have a son, since I knew this would be my last
chance to bear a child, and I was also unhappy
about my position at Vogue. I decided to take
my mind off my troubles by going alone to a
matinee. A play called Another Language had
been well reviewed and I knew I could always
lose myself in a good drama.

Halfway through the play I felt a growing
discomfort that I tried to blame on the apple
I'd eaten for lunch. When the discomfort con-
tinued, ‘“‘Now, Carmel,” I said, “‘you’ve been
through this before. You know it’s not that
apple; you’ve got to leave the theater.” I
wanted to see how the play ended, but when I
got outside I realized there was no time to lose.
The day before my mother-in-law’s compan-
ion had packed a bag for me and taken it to
the Harbor Hospital, as Miss Lippincott’s was
now called. “Cookie” had said, “If it’s as close
as this, you ought to be in the hospital,’ and
since she was always right, I wanted her
with me.

I took a taxi to the Snows’ apartment.
Cookie was on the phone in the hall. ‘““What-
ever you're doing, Cookie,” I said, “put that
right down because I’m on my way to the hos-
pital and this baby is coming as fast as it can.”

Twenty minutes after we reached the hospi-
tal she heard the cry of a newborn child.
“Don’t tell me that’s the Snow baby!”

Of course it was. They’d given me an anes-
thetic so I wouldn’t know the baby arrived be-
fore the doctor did—they always try to save
the doctor—and in half an hour I was back in
my room.

When Condé came in the next day to kiss
me good-bye before once more sailing for Eu-
rope, my old confidence was restored with this
new joy. Over and over again Condé has told
his friends that I said to him, “If you were to
fire me today I’d be back tomorrow, I love my
work so much,”’ so I suppose I did say it.
Neither of us realized that this was good-bye
forever.

While he was on the ocean I had another
visitor, an emissary from Mr. Hearst, whose
Harper’s Bazaar was a faltering rival of Vogue.
When my brother Tom became Mr. Hearst’s

. adding
gsize.
Sharmeer.

Brev
Modite
Duchess

147

general manager, Condé had been uneasy
about the possibility of his luring me away
from Vogue, but the emissary wasn’t Tom,
who was out of the city when Brigid was born.
Richard Berlin, in charge of the Hearst maga-
zines, seized the opportunity to approach me.
He made me the offer I’ve described.

is a way it seemed the answer to prayer. Al-
though Mrs. Chase constantly talked about re-
tiring, and Condé had assured me that I would
succeed her, I happened to know that she had
promised the succession to several other peo-
ple; and besides, I didn’t believe she had the
least intention of retiring. My wings as an edi-
tor were beginning to sprout, but at Vogue |
would never be able to use them. What Mr.
Berlin offered me were opportunity and chal-
lenge, as irresistible to me as it was to my
mother.

I still had an editor over me, but Arthur
Samuels, the editor of the Bazaar, was frankly
interested only in the fiction he bought for the
magazine.

I found myself in a very different climate
from that of Vogue. “‘Fifty-seventh Street,”’ as
we called the Hearst management because it
was located on West 57th Street, never lav-
ished on the Bazaar offices at 572 Madison
Avenue the luxury Condé Nast lavished on
Vogue. Vogue’s reception room was lined with
leather-bound books (fakes) where the most
beautiful girl in the world greeted visitors
from behind a Chinese-Chippendale desk ; 572
Madison Avenue looked like a small-town
newspaper office. When the film version of
Lady in the Dark was made, Ray Milland, one
of the stars, paid a visit to us. ““And where,”
he asked as he stepped out of the elevator,
“‘where are the main offices of Harper’s Ba-
zaar ?”

There were other vast differences. I had
known that I would have to work with a staff
nowhere near as distinguished as the staff
Condé had lovingly assembled—but I hadn’t
realized that I’d have to work with plumbers.
All the Bazaar covers wete stylized drawings
by an artist named Erté whom I proposed to

Seamless in your personal legsize

148

dispense with at once. I found he had a long
contract because, according to Mr. Hearst,
‘“‘How would you know it was Harper’s Bazaar
if you didn’t have an Erté cover month af-
ter month?” Our photographers were Baron
de Meyer, whose work was beginning to look
dated to me, and the Baroness von Horn.
They sounded more distinguished than their
fashion photographs were.

I was fairly appalled, as one often is at the
beginning of a love affair; but that this was a

love affair I was embarking on I never once
doubted. As in the Paris office of Vogue when I
was there, things began to hum. Since the art
director, too, was perfectly terrible, I per-
suaded a photographer known as “Ruzzie”
Green to take over the layouts. I adopted the
custom I used throughout my life at the Bazaar
of ‘‘putting the book on the floor,”’ laying out
photostats of every page in the coming issue
so I could see it as a whole and mull over it
while I sat at my desk. I often found myself

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deciding to make changes in the book as my
conscious or unconscious mind studied the
issue.

This custom wreaked havoc, of course, with
the cut-and-dried schedules that had governed
the Bazaar before I came breezing in. If I de-
cided that an issue had to be done over, new
sittings were hastily set up and night after
night Ruzzie Green, Mary Hanshon, the pro-
duction manager, and I sat up till all hours
remaking the book.

I had a long table set up in the middle of my
office (of which the door was always open),
and though I never liked solemn editorial con-
ferences, I did invite discussions in those early
days. Frances McFadden, of course, I a/ways
discussed everything with, and I encouraged
her to think up features to enliven the book—
which she promptly, and brilliantly, did. I
brought in the ebullient “Barry” as an assist-
ant fashion editor, and another enterprising
young woman I had met at Vogue named Wil-
hela (‘Willa’) Cushman. Our hilarious dis-
cussions around that table, everyone talking
at once, couldn’t possibly be ignored by the
solemn staff that had run things before.

My greatest joy, apart from my biannual
trips to Paris for the collections, still came
from photographic sittings, even though I no
longer had Steichen and Hoyningen-Huene to
work with. I used to kick off my shoes when I
went into the studio, borrow a pair of slip-
pers from the prop closet and set to it.

Those were the happy days before there
were too many “‘tredits” in the magazine, be-
fore “pure” pages (presenting fashion as fash-
ion) were balanced by “impure” pages (fash-
ion credited to stores or manufacturers who
advertised in the magazine). We photographed
styles I believed in and, even with inferior
photographers, we began getting results.

My great chance came when Mr. Hearst
“saw what I was doing.” Arthur Samuels and
I almost came to blows over the September,
1933, issue. I insisted on putting in a feature
I knew women would be interested in—our
first diet feature. (It was the Hay Diet that
later became so popular.) Even Mr. Berlin was
extremely doubtful about this: ““Two pages
given over to a diet ?”” And then when I sent
over from Paris some sketches by a new artist
whose work was a complete departure from
the stylized sketches we’d been showing, Ar-
thur Samuels, to my fury, played them down.

I decided to ask Mr. Hearst’s opinion of the
issue and when his memo arrived, I knew I
was in: “Chief says” (that’s how Hearst’s
memos always began) “everything a woman
would want to know in this issue.”

The sketches were of the woman I had per-
suaded to become our Paris editor. I wanted
someone there who could make news for the
Bazaar—and the Honorable Mrs. Reginald
Fellowes certainly made news. She was the

“Of course I’m well enough to go to work, Doctor. I sewed buttons on
all my shirts yesterday and guess what she’s got me doing today.’

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

fashion leader of Paris at that time. Our Au
gust issue had featured a sketch of her bi
Cocteau, through whom I met her, and our
announcement of her appointment statec
flatly: ““She has launched more fashions thar
any woman in the world.”
Her beautiful house at Neuilly was the cen
ter of everything that went on in Paris.
coverlet made of black ostrich feathers, ¢
dress bearing fresh orchids on its train—noth
ing was too extreme for Daisy Fellowes. Shi
always wore her jewels in duplicate, exactly
the same jewels on both hands and arms—he
One concession to balance; she simply blurrec
everybody out. And the fact that she wa
Schiaparelli’s mannequin mondaine, and tha
Scap was also revolutionizing fashion, mad!
her entrance into journalism a sensation. a
I was beginning to look for news photo
graphs that would bring in a little action w i
the first of my ‘‘discoveries” entered my life
I had seen an advertisement for B. Altma!
that attracted my attention. When I sent fo
the artist, Frederic Varady, he showed me som
news photographs by a fellow Hungariari
Martin Munkacsi, that had appeared in Di}
Dame. 1 asked Varady how I could get i|
touch with his friend. It appeared that for ex
actly two days Munkacsi happened to be iff
New York. I remember my joy at thinking}
“This man is here !”’ I decided to let him r
photograph a bathing-suit feature that haf
been taken, as usual, in the studio agains i
painted backdrop. 7 i
The day I took those two Hungarians to tj
Piping Rock beach is a day I will never fo}
get. The model was Lucile Brokaw, the first |
the “society” models that I found. The de¥
was cold, unpleasant and dull—not at <lf'
auspicious for a “glamorous resort” pictur| '
Munkacsi hadn’t a word of English, and hf
friend seemed to take forever to interpry—
for us. t
It seemed that what Munkacsi wanted w)
for the model to run toward him. The resultiP
picture of a typical American girl in acti}
with her cape billowing out behind her, maij*
photographic history. Fr
When the December issue came out (late, F
usual, of course) I was summoned to M M
Hearst’s fabulous retreat, “San Simeon,” aif!
because Munkacsi was also in Californie} r
arranged for him to meet me there. |.
At 2:30 in the morning I arrived at the:
trance to the 275,000-acre “ranch.” The fig”
thing I was met by was herds of wild animig™
running across the road. When 1 finalft!
reached my bed, which had belonged to Mi n or
de Pompadour, I fell into a grateful sleep thf b
was broken early the same morning by 1 f
roaring and howling of Mr. Hearst’s priv _
zoo. What I wanted, and needed, was coff#*
There was no bell in my room, so when I he ii
someone moving outside my door I aske;f* |
Ploy
| nul

RIL, 1962

By the spring of 1939 “tout-Paris” was
unged into the frenetic gaiety that I remem-
sr from 1914. There was a series of elaborate
ystume balls that Louise Macy described in
tters to us, and in June she herself gave a
irty that made history.

By then Louie “owed Paris.” She had been
vited everywhere; the small dinners she gave
her apartment hadn’t “returned”’ half the
cial obligations she owed. For one thing,
»w could she invite people like the Duke and
‘ichess of Windsor to a little furnished flat
the Left Bank? The duchess had ‘‘made”’
yuie’s first Christmas in Paris by an imagina-
le gesture that has always endeared her to
«. She invited eight young foreigners who
sre separated from their families to dine with
i: duke and herself on Christmas Eve. Louie
id barely met her at Mainbocher’s (where
» duchess bought all her clothes), and the
t that all her new friends were occupied
Ih their own family obligations made this
vitation a very special treat—especially be-
ise it was a truly old-fashioned Christmas
he, with a tree decorated like the tree in
: Nutcracker Suite, spiced German punch
id cookies, and small presents at every place
ithe table.

f Louie headed the list for her party with
i) Windsors, she went on to include everyone
Li knew, from princes and princesses to her
‘ow workers at the office. She wanted to en-
ain all her friends, but how to do it? She
Ml about $500 saved up. Ata pinch she could
row a little more from her family, but the
xes quoted by the only attractive places to
ertain some 200 people were completely
' of sight. And Louie was determined that
A) was not going to leave anyone out.

jt was “Johnny” Lucinge who made the
Niliant suggestion. He took her to see a de-
led old hétel in the Marais, the seventeenth-
>itury section of Paris. This beautiful old
Masion, called the Hétel Salé because it was
tt by the man who made a fortune import-
jW salt into France, stands opposite the
see Carnavalet, but its U-shaped wings
wounding a cobblestoned courtyard were
‘Mitered. During all the years I had visited
‘Ms it had been closed and empty.

Why don’t you bring it back to life for a
11t?” Johnny suggested.

Quie’s Paris-trained imagination caught
and her American enterprise took over.
went to the agent who had the real-estate
g for the old hétel. “I want to open the
for a party. I'll need a week to get it in
er, but Pil use it only one night.”

,fiarugs. “Shall we say eight hundred dol-

1
4d

puie’s French was still pure Californian,
¥ishe had Prince de Faucigny-Lucinge to
ess her very definite reply. ‘Perfectly
lulous. It will be the best advertisement
could possibly get. I don’t intend to pay
a penny. I just want the key.’?

te key was handed over and Louie walked
a great hall with two sweeping staircases
#ng up to a mezzanine which surrounded
hall and opened into salons overlooking
ourtyard. It was deep in dust and cob-
}, but the proportions were as magnificent
‘e had imagined, and as she mounted the
ing staircase she found herself envisioning
‘party.

men she got down to practicalities. The
/f, rooms were dank, but when they were
ied and aired there would be no problem
t heating in June. Light. No electricity, of
3e€, so they would have to be lighted with
les (perfect). Water. By exploring far cor-
she found one water connection, but no

ie’s first arrangement was for a sewer
to be connected from the musée across
treet. Next another “Johnny,” Johnny
mberger, remembered that an old candle-
t had bought the chandeliers which origi-
hung in the Hétel Salé. ‘““He was the most
ting man,’ Louie remembers. “When I
|him if I could borrow the chandeliers for
at he didn’t even suggest a fee; he was as
‘d at the prospect.of relighting the hétel
vas. ‘T’ll hang the chandeliers for you,’ he
‘but I’m afraid I can’t afford the candles.”
k my first investment was for candles—
‘wndred of them.”

Louie thinks that she next had long trestle
tables made for her party, even before she ar-
ranged for the food—she had an ace up her
sleeve for that. A few years before she had
made her “grand tour’ of Europe with her
sisters (Gertrude Macy, the theatrical pro-
ducer, and the present Mrs. Nicholas Luding-
ton). Armed with a powerful letter of introduc-
tion from a friend of their family, they went to
the famous Tour d’Argent for dinner. André
Terrail, the proprietor, was doubtless as im-
pressed by the collective Macy charm as by the
letter.

So Louie went straight to M. Terrail. “I’m
up against it,” she told him. “I’m going to
open the Hotel Salé for a party, but I have
only about four hundred dollars for food and
liquor for two hundred people. What can
I do?”

M. Terrail was as much moved by the
thought of bringing the old hétel to life as
the Prince de Faucigny-Lucinge was, and the
candlemaker.

He said, “That’s the most beautiful house
in all of Paris. V’ll do the food and the wine
at cost because I’d love to be known as hay-
ing done a party there; Pll supply you with
the table linen, china, glass, silver... . The
waiters, of course. The waiters must be in
seventeenth-century livery. They must serve
in the proper style, holding the platters high
on the flat of their hands—nothing must be
served as it is today. . . . Two footmen (as tall
as I can find) at the head of the stairs ——”’

By, this time Louie was drunk with excite-
ment. She knew she’d have to send home for
more money (incredibly, she needed only two
or three hundred dollars more), but everything
was going to be just as she dreamed. Her
invitations then went out: “‘Ladies, white ball
gowns and tiaras. Gentlemen, white tie and
decorations.”

When the hotel was cleaned and polished,
the long crystal chandeliers hung, Louie was
as thrilled as if she had just bought the great
mansion. Being American, she needed a bar,
which she set up on the mezzanine with an ivy-
green-and-white striped awning over it. She
hired an American band that was playing in
Paris, she ordered her flowers. The rest was in
the capable hands of M. Terrail.

On a perfect evening in June, wearing a
white Schiaparelli ball gown of heavy, stiff lace
and a borrowed tiara from Cartier (Cartier
and Van Cleef & Arpels had enough insurance
out that night to pay the national debt), Louie
arrived at the Hétel Salé. As the soft light of
900 candles shone from the high windows onto
the courtyard, she should have clattered up to
the entrance in a coach, but she felt enough
like Cinderella, she says, as she entered the hall.

On the table by the door stood trays of flow-
ers. A footman asked the name of each guest
as he entered. If the bouquet the guest was
handed was of muguets he was seated at the
table decorated with lilies of the valley; if of
roses, at the rose table, and so on. It was a
pretty beginning for a lovely sight of ladies
floating through the candlelit rooms in white
gowns and tiaras (the wives of the artists, much
in evidence, wore tiaras of flowers since they
couldn’t afford diamonds) with gentlemen in
evening dress brightened by decorations which
were sometimes bought and sometimes made:
Bébé Bérard appeared with a row of ladies’
garters on his lapel.

French “‘society,” for once, was amused by
the unfamiliar faces intermingled with the fa-
miliar; the evening was gala from the moment
it began, through the courses of delicious food
(whole baby lambs served like suckling pigs on
enormous salvers held high in the seventeenth-
century manner), through the dancing that be-
gan as soon as the tables were miraculously
cleared and whisked away by M. Terrail’s per-
fect waiters, until dawn broke and the band
played “Good night, ladies” as if this were
an American college prom.

Louie went home in the pearly Paris light
drunk this time with triumphant happiness. At
nine o’clock (this is an anticlimax) she was
awakened by the telephone and the voice of
Elsa Maxwell. ‘““My dear, I’m supposed to
know how to give parties, but I want to tell you
that yours topped anything I’ve ever seen in
my life.”” This was June of 1939, just before the
Second World War came down on us.

When the German panzer divisions started
their push toward Paris I began frantically
cabling Louie to come home. She reacted as I
like to think I should have done. She dis-
patched the French staff to their families, han-
dled all the office work herself by day, and
worked every night at the railroad stations
helping refugees who streamed through Paris
as the doughboys streamed through in the
First World War. She had bought a tiny Simca
car, which a rich American named Laura
Corrigan filled to the brim with food and first-
aid supplies that the two women handed out as
long as the supplies and their strength lasted.
My cables, and her sisters’, finally persuaded

THIS CAN

151

Louie to take passage on the Manhattan sailing
from Genoa in early June.

I fitted her into my New York staff until she
decided to take a fling in the wholesale-dress
business.

Her partner was Pauline Potter, who later
became Hattie Carnegie’s designer, and they
were backed by the Whitneys to the tune
of $50,000, but their first collection lost $47,-
000 in two days (a record, Louie maintains)
and she settled for becoming a nurse’s aide.

With her abundant energy, this activity
wasn’t enough for Louie. She wanted a Gov-
ernment job. I had met somewhere a man who
had become a power behind the throne in

BE SEEN

ONLY

152

Washington, Harry Hopkins, and I gave Louie
a letter to him.

My ‘“‘nose” for romance is not as keen, ’m
afraid, as I like to think it is. It didn’t occur to
me that my perennial thirst for matchmaking
was about to be satisfied. When Louie seemed
to be getting nowhere in Washington, I begged
her to come back to New York.

Her reply, “I think my future is settled. ’'m
going to marry Harry Hopkins,” was more of
a surprise to me than it was to Harry’s boss,
President Roosevelt.

With increased advertising in those prosper-
ous boom years, Harper’s Bazaar needed more
and more paper, which could be allotted only
to a new magazine. For that reason the Hearst
organization decided to publish a Junior
Bazaar.

The seventh floor of 572 Madison was given
over to this enterprise. Most of the editors
were young girls, one of whom often had
a blond boy lurking in her office. I thought he
must be the little brother of Barbara Lawrence,
Junior’s very intellectual features editor, and
when my fiction editor brought him along to a
cocktail party I asked the child if I could get
hima glass of milk. When Mary Louise Aswell
introduced him to me as Truman Capote I
quickly switched to a martini.

Junior Bazaar brought me my last great
“discovery.”” Brodovitch kept as fatherly an
eye on Junior as | kept a motherly eye. When a
slim, dark, eager young man, wearing the uni-
form of the merchant marine, came into the
art department, Brodovitch opened his port-
folio with the slightly jaded hope with which
my fiction editor opened a manuscript by a
new writer.

What he saw—pictures of seamen in ac-
tion—made Brodovitch ask the boy to try do-
ing fashions for the young in the same manner
And when I saw the results I knew that in
Richard Avedon we had a new, contemporary
Munkacsi.

In 1947 my daughter Carmel left Vassar be-
cause she had become engaged to Thornton
Wilson Jr., and Mary Palen entered Bryn
Mawr. For Carmel’s wedding, held at the
Colony Club because Thornton, like Palen, is
an Episcopalian, Mainbocher gave her the
most ravishing wedding gown.

I played a part in another, more publicized
wedding that year. I had been asked by the
Hearst management to add Doris Duke, “‘the
richest girlin the world,” to my staff and I took
her to Paris with me. I was a little disturbed by
her evident infatuation with that notorious
playboy, Porfirio Rubirosa, and tried to keep
her as busy as possible—which was always
easy to do during the collections.

One Friday afternoon I told her that we
would be photographing the next morning.

“Oh,” Doris said, “I didn’t know you’d be
working on Saturday. I planned to get mar-
ried.”

“Well, Doris,’ I said, “I suppose it’s
Rubirosa. Have you told your mother about
this plan?”

When I found that she had not only told no
one but was to be married in the Dominican
Legation, which would lose her her American
citizenship (Rubirosa told her it was to avoid
publicity), I went into action. It was nearly five
o’clock on Friday afternoon and I barely had
time to get hold of our French lawyer. He said,
“This wedding mustn’t go on unless the girl is
represented by counsel.”” He got on the phone
to America, and at noon the next day, when
Doris was married to Rubirosa, a battery of
legal talent was there to make the groom sign
away any claim to one of the largest fortunes
in the world. I suppose the bride was no more
grateful than the groom at the time, but subse-
quent events have happily changed her feeling
about my interference.

I was always interested in our models and
proud to see them get on in the world, espe-
cially when I happened to spot them before
anyone else did. Betty Bacall was a New York
girl who had never modeled before Louise
Dahl-Wolfe used her for a March cover in
1942. Even Brodovitch thought she looked too
“decadent” for a cover featuring the Red
Cross, but that photograph caught the eye of a
Hollywood agent, and under Howard Hawks’s

direction our young model became the movie
star Lauren Bacall. Similarly, Suzy Parker
was photographed by Louise when she was
only fifteen, and again a Bazaar cover was the
start of a career.

My devotion to Paris and the cause of the
French couture was crowned in 1949 when I
was awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Legion
of Honor. A small group met in the French
Consulate in Rockefeller Center—Palen, my
children, Carmel’s mother-in-law (Mrs. Sum-
ner Welles), Frances McFadden, Dick Ave-
don—for the brief ceremony. And in addition
to the cross and the ribbons I wear on my
coats and dresses, I have a charming memento
of the occasion, a large scroll showing the dec-
oration and under it the autographs of my
friends in Paris who gave me a gold powder
box to mark the event: Cristobal Balenciaga,
Tian Dior, Edward Molyneux, Schiaparelli,
Jeanne Toussaint, Marie-Louise Bousquet. ...
You can imagine how proud I am to have my
name added to that honor roll.

My business life, and to a certain extent my
personal life, centered in Europe during my
last decade as the editor of Harper’s Bazaar.
The Marshall Plan had by then done its work.
Europe was miraculously reviving; arts and
crafts were flourishing; new fashion centers
were springing up. And perhaps because my
career was drawing to a close, Paris seemed to
belong to me—or I to Paris—more than ever
before. My sitting room was almost smothered
in the masses of flowers sent me by the haute
couture in the exchange of compliments we in-
tersperse with inevitable rows. And my morn-
ing “levées’” were now more crowded than
ever.

Sally Kirkland, now the fashion editor of
Life, asked one time if she could spend a day
with me. Here’s her report:

“Carmel said, “Why of course, my dear,
come tomorrow—is a quarter to eight too

early for you?’ So I said, ‘Oh no, not a bit too
early.’ I practically had to stay up all night to
make it, but I got there at a quarter to eight,
and of course I was about two hours behind
Carmel. She’d been up at six to get some out-
fits from Balenciaga for Avedon to photo-
graph. She’d been stone-cold naked under the
suit she’d put on, so it was easy for her to get
back into her nightgown, which was the way I
found her—she’d kept her pearls on, though.
And that hotel suite was in full swing.

“Two telephones were going full blast, with
a secretary in the sitting room to pick up one
phone when Carmel picked up the other beside
her bed. There seemed to be a thread running
through some of the calls: “Number seventy-
seven and Number seventy-three. ... No, no,
those are the two’; so I gathered that those
were the OK Balenciaga suits, and that the
calls were the postmortems Carmel always
holds after showings. If she made a call herself
she’d start right in, very low, sort of like a con-
spirator: ‘Hattie, this is Carmel. What did you
think of Balmain’s collection? . . . Larry, this
is Carmel > and so on and so forth.

“In between phone calls Carmel dictated
cables, giving direct answers to questions and
good advice on the periphery of the collec-
tions, such as telling Du Pont not to give up
hope, Givenchy had used nylon in his collec-
tion—all very clear and concise and quick.

“Some jewelry person came in with samples
he spread out on the bed next to Carmel’s,
then a lingerie lady with same, then a man
from the studio with some layouts for ap-
proval; Marie-Louise Bousquet hobbled in for
the day’s gossip; Avedon rushed in with his
contact prints. Carmel picked up her magnify-
ing glass, peered through it at the sheets of tiny
pictures for three minutes, then began punctur-
ing the ones she wanted with a pencil, all the
time talking or dictating.

“Suddenly in came a woman who walked
straight past all of us into the bathroom. No-

FIFTY YEARS AGO

IN THE JOURNAL

In April, 1912, the unsinkable Titanic
sank after scraping an iceberg on her
maiden voyage to New York. John
Jacob Astor was among more than 1500
who lost their lives because of insuffi-

cient lifeboats. Zane Grey wrote Riders of

the Purple Sage; housewives painted by
hand their good sets of china; and the
new Easter hats were towering confec-
tions of straw heaped with white lilacs,
yellow cowslips and blue forget-me-nots.

In the April, 1912, Journal is an ac-
count of a day’s shopping: ‘“‘When she
enters the city department store, my
wife first goes to the day nursery and
leaves the two children in charge of a
pleasant-faced, cheery-voiced matron;
then she attacks the counters, with a
half hour’s rest lying down at lunch.
During the day she checks by store
telephone with the maid at home pre-
paring dinner, and the children in the
nursery. At the close of the day there is
a free organ concert for store patrons.
Although we live twenty miles from the
city, the store will also pay my wife’s
train fare if she spends a certain number
of dollars in merchandise.”

“T don’t plan an extravagant home,”
writes an engaged girl, “only such tri-
fling luxuries as a sewing room, a sleep-
ing porch and a maid.”

“To encourage our children to save,
we double all the pennies they put into
the savings bank,” reveals one mother.

“Most of the rugs country people can
afford are very ugly, as is most of the
wallpaper seen in country homes,”’ be-
lieves A Plain Country Woman. “‘ What-
ever is gaudy or glaring or inartistic has
a bad effect on the spiritual life.”

Cleaning tip: ‘‘Threads and hairs on
a carpet are hard to sweep up, but if the
broom is brushed lightly round and
round the threads will make a ball and
may be easily picked up.”

“Why need there be such an ugly
contrast of colors between the first and
second stories that spoils so many good
houses?” asks the author of Good
Houses Spoiled by Bad Painting. “A
brown upper story looks stuck on a
green lower story. Paint it all brown or
all green.”

“Two kinds of curtains at each win-
dow are extremely attractive—sash cur-
tains, and thin curtains of net next to
the pane.”

“All the cooking utensils needed for a
well-equipped kitchen, as well as knives,
canisters, a chair and a broom, can be
bought for $22. An iron skillet costs
thirty cents.”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

body paid the slightest attention to her. I sa’
her open a bag she carried and begin layir
out some kind of instruments on a tabl
When she came back into the bedroom Carm
said ‘Bonjour, stripped down the sheet to é
pose her flank (gents were still standir
around, of course), the woman gave her a pol
with a needle, and away she went.

“Well, by nine-thirty, when Carmel got
to dress for the day’s first collection, I w,
ready to go back to bed.” ‘

As I approached seventy and retirement
knew that the only place I could cheerfully r
tire to was Ireland. In Dublin I took myself
Michael Scott, Ireland’s best architect, ar
asked him to find me my house.

My sister, Christine Holbrook, was n
widowed, so I wanted her to share this Ig
adventure and the house with me. Chris
spent more time at Rossyvera than I did dt
ing the three happy years I owned it, and g
was really the chatelaine. “Life was qu
there,” she says, “except when you came!”

It was because Palen’s throat becai
gravely affected that we realized we could
live in the uncertain weather of County Maj
I was fortunate in finding an American w
was delighted to buy Rossyvera, including
furnishings I’d collected. But I was more fi
tunate that I had for a time my “‘castle in
air.” ‘

I couldn’t wish for anyone a happier car
than mine has been. I can honestly say
have never once been bored in my work. }
for a single second.

As I dictate these words I am looking f
ward eagerly to a party for Marc Bohan,
brilliant young successor to Christian D}
There will always be successors—to Dior,
me, even to Balenciaga, the greatest figu
fashion of my time.

If fashion isn’t your field—as probably
not for some who read my story—remen
this: whatever your career may be—in
home, in business, in the arts—make it a]
affair.

EPILOGUE

On the morning of May 8, 1961, Leo Lert
telephoned me that Carmel had died in
sleep the night before. She was buried bi
her little lost son in the Snow plot of a ¢
cemetery in Cold Spring Harbor. ;

A great editor, I think, has to be ruth
I once asked Carmel for an example
smiled her little curling, sardonic smile
said, ““Ask Diane to tell you about a p
graph George Hoyningen-Huene broug
to show me.”

This is the story Diane Vreeland told
““At the time when Garbo was at her
mysterious and remote, George showed
mel a picture he’d taken of her just for hin
He’d promised never to publish it; and
way, to him it was like the picture of @
child would be to a bereaved mother. Ce
calmly announced that she was going to
it and she was going to publish it. We al
tested. Carmel said, ‘I don’t care if G
rots in jail. I want that picture.”

She was not only dependent on Huene
artist. She was extremely fond of him
friend. But her magazine came first. It 4
did—after God and her family.

There were “appreciations,” lots of
Janet Flanner’s included this paragraph
was first and foremost an editor. That v
profession. She was an extraordinary €
creative, concrete, facile to work with be
she knew what she wanted, difficult b
she wanted only the best. J

“If she asked you to write a piece andy
inquired when she wanted it, she alway
“Yesterday.’ As an executive she usuall
aged things merely by being irresistible)
she was a great persuader.”

As I leaf through my notes and ré
hundreds of letters written to me about
or sent on by her family, I find these t
repeated over and over: instinct, fi
““Carmel’s intuitive instinct gave her 4
security in her judgments. She was alwé
sure. That’s why she exuded power.

In one way or another her entire st
and present, say the same thing: She m
achieve more than you could. a

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SPAGHETTI MEDITERRANEO

Make your spaghetti in a traditional way, too. Add 1 tsp. dried mar-
joram to water in cooking % pound spaghetti. Drain and toss with % cup
once : . : coarsely chopped parsley. Top with heated

ie sauce from a 15%-oz. can.
Or try this delicious herb spaghetti with
Chef Boy-Ar-Dee Spaghetti Sauce with
Mushrooms, Sauce with Meat Balls or Mari-
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sauces to pep up meat, fish and egg dishes.
Only pennies a serving.

Sau. * oinute with the Chef's touch in it ==)

® fJtalian” |
Food
Fi estival }

Dental authorities agree:

You can lose more teeth from gum troubles
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How brushing with new Ipana helps you

protect your gums as you protect your teeth

] ist do half the job! It’s a proven fact—dental authorities agree that,
é ‘e 14, gum troubles cause more loss of teeth than tooth decay. Gum
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t nly cleansed away. Only your dentist can remove tartar once it hard-

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help you bruSh away soft film before it hardens into tartar that irritates and
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i More good news—a new minty flavor!

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EXACHLOROPHENE

~ EEE eee

ie J OURN:; ie

re ih
BETTY SPICER

yA CATHY
DI MONTEZEMOLO
JOURNALITIES

“No Hiding Place,’’” EDWIN LAN-
HAM'’s nineteenth novel (see page
44), is made to order for Manhattan
aficionados—the plot involves two
Greenwich Village children who are
pursued by a murderer through the
wilderness of Central Park. The
author, a former newspaperman,
lives on Long Island Sound (barely
commuting distance away) with
wife Irene and daughter Evelyn.

Whatis a Journal editor like? If she’s
BETTY COE SPICER, she’s a tall,
poised blonde with a novelist hus-
band and an apartment on Phila-
delphia’s Rittenhouse Square. She
grew up on aranch north of Phoenix
and still thinks Arizona is ‘‘the great-
est place in the world to live.”’ After
free-lancing, she came to the Jour-
nal to write about what other people
are like—see her reportontheMapes
family of Glen Rock, N. J. (‘The
Early Growing Years’), on page 108.

Fashion Editor CATHY DI MONTEZE-
MOLO'sS career began when she
posed in a white ball gown for a
magazine photograph of debu-
tantes. The editorin charge promptly
invited Cathy to be her assistant—
she was the only deb who had hung
up her dress afterward! In private
life a marchesa, she tours the New
York markets in a tiny red Fiat,
wearing out a pair of pumps every
three weeks to find just the right
clothes for Journal fashion pages.

EME fk is

Changing Your Address?
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you pay extra pos

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ar we cant

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before the first issue to to t r

dress, send us your new addres nc Jing
postal zone, your old address and a label from
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requests send us latest mailir els includ-

ing those from duplicate copies
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Philadelphia 5, Pa.

Printed in U.S.A.

CONDENSED NOVEL COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE

NOVAIDINGIRFACEREEreneiiyt.. . .. +s) ciel lellict tel stte merce romermoat oun Edwin Lanham
STORIES
VMERSHUCKSrONmmemmircs.. . . . ci geltemis, “ols! (VsimeMleiNe) ve) icibtel ielkls Kate McNair
WW STE RINGOVOWMmemE, . . 0 « cMeileimcutel len tcc o1 tcltemrclitclclipetesy te William Cole
ARTICLES
EDITORUADSMieerwrCErIECINS «2 0 + « .oMtaiMelMer Uciictsihe ols Bruce and Beatrice Gould ”

THE WOMAN’S MIND: PROBLEMS OF RAISING CHILDREN
(Gallup Survey No. 5)

US NON WVERS 5 5 GPP o cob Obo m5 bo e595 € Jane Goodsell
MOTHERSTIMBROVE WITH AGE... = sie «ce Jeanmarie Coogan

MAKING MARRIAGE WORK .............. Clifford R. Adams, Ph.D.
MES DIARVRORSASFACE :LIFT....... s, SimeumewebretvclveteelcomteRiomcinciae cumein Cumin siren <nemrure
MECLEUMIESDOGHIOR . < « a » « « iNEM «etm si va Goodrich C. Schauffler, M.D.
THE QUESTIONS ADOLESCENTS ASK ABOUT SEX . . . Benjamin Spock, M.D.

KIM NOVAK: “‘WHY I’M AFRAID OF MARRIAGE” ........ George Christy
WHICH ARE EASIER TO RAISE, BOYS OR GIRLS? Betty Hannah Hoffman

HOW AMERICA SPENDS ITS MONEY: THE EARLY GROWING YEARS
Betty Coe Spicer

GENERAL FEATURES

OUR READERS WRITE US
PEAVEBRIDGE . . 3. <2 % 2)... 2) SORES MCRI Sib Es irs Charles and Peggy Solomon
me RES A MAN IN THE SHOUSE “iste cmcucmenrcmciremcntneamenrs Harlan Miller

FipiavEARS AGO «: sc! ss © 2° <> fepReneeereune nnn lcire Mier msnictic. 5. ca) uni. e ree
PASIAN WOMAIN: sc s.c6i ro. oy. scene Ne Mecrtaia citemeeener cise ts Marcelene Cox

FASHION AND BEAUTY
HOW TO DRESS WELL ON PRACTICALLY NOTHING:

A. FAIR-WEATHER FAVORITE Seremaemeimemreimemte topic atts toile is cet 1 ve Bet Hart
HERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT HERG mmc metiair Ts Wilhela Cushman
RAINCOAT: (RAGES. <c.. 3 © eset ie set eeuenToMeMRIAMEs EIR site s,s Inc +1 sect cht Mie wtCRneS
NEW SYNTHETICS LOOK COOL, CRISP, BEAUTIFUL ...... Nora O'Leary

FIVE LOOKS ON -ACSATIUIRDAYANIGEilgewcmerremriisyiem's) oils). «01 uioereueremene

FROMUMESTONYOU! °c ccecceicr c+. 0) cai cin enn ane En eee ate Marcelene Cox
A ‘DINNER THAT SPARKLES) ~. ...-liiecumppcurcnrenncmrcmroircntonrs) sourewicn John Prince
WE: EOVE: “SPRING IFINK’ DESSERTS. eetcncncene Nancy Crawford Wood
3' SALAD LUNCHEONS. .; .. ©): 2, <2 eieeetcene eterna ime Louella G. Shouer
TMHE-EGGS. THAT CAME TOP DINNERS amen mcmcn en iene mtcmn ne Elaine Hanna
IT ALL COMES: OUT IN THE WASH! Secu cccscute ccarcmrente Margaret Davidson

ARCHITECTURE AND GARDENING

DAWN’ SERVICE AT ‘OLD SALEM) «co c.ctsist cucncncmrcnmtirenitsmeeiir ste Richard Pratt
A TREASURY OF TERRACES... .: .- ecu ie CRC ME EE aneeE Ol ceicvaeyn inc os
HOT-WEATHER HOUSE... ... . . <i ccememrSn Smee John Brenneman
POEMS
NOW IN THIS GOLDEN TUMBLE OF JOY ..5. 5 a0 a. Alexander Taylor
MEXICO\(San, Miguel de Allende) . <9. 4 seats cmemeuemeaeeeme James Hearst
FOXGLOVES) 0.05 Sei ck 6 ao ci Dionis Coffin Riggs
QUEBEC MAY . .. 2... 5. « «rile ee ae een neem Earle Birney
SMALE BOY'S BATH «... . . . « ‘so. faneneneRrenen ln aean emit Grove Becker
A'GRAY SPRING MORNING . . . . scl c.cedeine ncn tesmncunenemes mney eine John Ciardi

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COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY JOHN STEWART; COVER DESIGN BY WILHELA CUSHMAN;

YELLOW COTTON KNIT SHIRT BY SHIP'N’ SHORE

©) 1962 The Curtis Publishing Company in U.S. and Great Britain. All rights reserved. Title reg. U.S. Patent Office
nd foreign countries. Published monthly. Second-Class postage paid at Phila., Pa., and at additional mailing offices,
ered as Second-Class Matter a e Post Office Department, Ottawa, Canada, by Curtis Distributing Company,

, Toronto, Ont., Canada. Subscription Prices: U.S., Possessions and Canada, 1 Yr., $3.00: longer terms $2.50 each
onal year. Pan American r., $4.00. All other countries, 1 Yr., $5.00. Unconditional Guaranty. We

pon request direct from the Philadelphia office, to refund the full amount paid for any copies

of ( is publications not previously mai The Curtis Publishing Company, Robert E. MacNeal, President; Mary
nbalist, Sr. Vice Pre ( V. Bok, Sr. Vice Pres.; Edward C. Von Tress, Sr. Vice Pres. and Director

ng; E. Huber Ulrich r I and Director of Circulation; Ford F. Robinson, Sr. Vice Pres. and

M ness Department; Brandor nger, Treasurer; Robert Gibbon, Secretary; E. Kent Mitchel, Vice Pres.
and Publi f Ladies’ Home Hadsell, Agst. Publisher; John J. Veronis, Vice Pres. and Advertising
I ctor. TI »>mpany also irday Evening Post, Jack and Jill, Holiday and The American Home,

EDITOR:
CURTISS ANDERSON

EXECUTIVE EDITOR:
Mary Bass

ART DIRECTOR:
Tom Heck

ASSOCIATE EDITORS:

Peter Briggs

William McCleery
Mary Lea Page

Cathy di Montezemolo
William E. Fink
Louella G. Shouer
Margaret Davidson
Nora O’Leary

Barbara Benson
Glenn Matthew White
Anne Einselen
Margaret Parton
Geraldine Rhoads
Nancy Crawford Wood
John H. Brenneman
Jean Todd Freeman
Nelle Keys Bell

Betty Coe Spicer

Neal Gilkyson Stuart
Cynthia Kellogg

Bet Hart

Berenice Connor
Betty Hannah Hoffman
Beverly Jane Loo

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS:

Richard Pratt
Wilhela Cushman
Laura Lou Brookman
Dawn Crowell Ney
Margaret Hickey

EDITORIAL ASSOCIATES:

John Werner

Ruth Mary Packard
Ruth Shapley Matthews
Joseph Di Pietro
Elizabeth Goetsch
Joyce Posson

Dorothy Anne Robinson
Liane Waite

Anne Fuller

Jim Abel

ASSISTANT EDITORS:

Victoria Harris

Alice Kastberg
Dorothy Markinko
Jean Anderson

Grant Harris

Ann Blackmar Lapides
Lee Stowell Cullen
Elaine Ward-Hanna
Carole O’Brien Gaffron
Hazel Owen

Miki Mahoney

Pamela Chamberlain

EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS:

Helen Olchvary
Mary Jane Engel
Natalie Schram
Julie Ditchy Crum
Lee Pettee

Bette Holman
Eugenie Thayer
Betty Felton
Margaret Kennedy

‘Nowadays you change your eyes as often as you change your

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all last long after you’ve said good-bye.

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Distance is the next best thing to being there

~
s

4 . 2

4 ee

2 >. #
M §

As we said hello when we took over the
E
editorship of the Journal back in 1935, we wish,

flow, to sa

good bye. With this tssue, Curtiss
anderson assumes the editorship of our favor-
tte magazine.

Our editing the Journal for vou has never
seemed a tatk. “We have regarded tt more as a
continuous, ~ pleasant, absorbing conversation
with many friends on matters of mutual con-
cern about the home, the community and the
world. Since, during our editorship, the num-
ber of our friends has tripled, we can reasonabl
hope youve enjo) ed yourselves along with us.

Good-bye. It's been wonderful knowing you

Rest wishes to vou all

/Dihibhi

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OUR READERS
WRITE US

THE °60°S SHAPE HER

Dear Editors: “Shaping the °60’s—
Foreshadowing the °70’s” is a pleasing
picture of today’s Ss young woman—ideal-
istic, confident, intelligent. Their re-
sponses are fairly close to those I and my
contemporaries would have given ten
vears ago. As one who had a part in
“Shaping the °50’s to Foreshadow the
°60's” I would like to respond to a few of
these same questions now.

Q. How many children would you like
to have?

\. I always thought that six children
would be wonderful; four boys for him,
two girls for me. We now have the four
boys for him. I think [ll make do with
what I have.

Q. Can you describe your dream
house?

A. Yes indeed! My dream house would
have wall-to-wall ceilings; also it would
be nice to have six bathrooms in perfect
working order at all times.

, Is money important to a marriage?

. It need not be! As long as you pave
Dats to pay for food, clothine! hous-

ing, insurance, home-repair bills, taxes,
heat, electricity, telephone, car expenses,
medical bills and le ngthy vacations, you
needn't let it bother you.

(). Do women dress for women?

A. I dress in whatever I have. If it’s a
choice of my blue housedress or my red
apron, I always choose the blue because
my husband prefers it.

(. Do you believe in women working
after marriage?

A. No, I don’t. Washing,
dusting, blowing noses, cutting finger-
nails and hair, papering walls, painting
woodwork, chauffering and cooking are
too much fun.

Timna G. Honces, Concord, N.H.

ironing,

“WINNING” THE NEXT WAR

Dear kditors: This morning I went
walking very early. The air was cool and
crisp—a beautiful day. These days al-

most everyone has a new perception of

the beauty and goodness of ordinary
living. T he things which we have so long
ilten for panied assume new meaning
when we acknowledge that any day may
bring an end to life as we now live it.
Of what use are fallout shelters? Who
wants to crawl out to a land devastated
by radiation, perhaps for months and
years to come? Who knows if children
can still be born (normal ones, that is) to
those fortunate (?) enough to survive?

Now is the time, not for fallout shel-
ters, but for all the intelligent citizens
of the entire world to petition for the
total destruction of all nuclear weapons.
If the powers that make war can be made
to realize that humanity is doomed, re-
gardless of who “wins” in the holocaust
they are planning, then perhaps the
bombs will be de sstroye ad.

FLoreNce E. Biro, Copiague, L.L., NY

CRUSADE AGAINST KNEES

Dear Editors: | have been refusing fe
the past year to buy any dress or ski
not long enough to be reasonably kin
to my legs. Even though I’m only 5’6
it has been extremely difficult for me ft
find anything becoming to me. I wis
enough American women would join m
in my crusade against exposed knees s
that clothing manufacturers woul
“stuck”? with their too-short styl
just as they were with their sack dress
a few years ago.

Mary S. NEILLy, State College, p

THE RICH LIFE

Dear Editors: | came to British Guian
two years ago to teach my brother
children, ie were preparing to retur
to the United States. When they left,
didn’t want to leave. I'd been workin
among the Indians, and I had groy
rich. To me, being rich is not havi
plenty of money, but sharing love, jo
fear, hope, aspiration, and falling asles
in my hammock, thanking the Lord f
the privilege of serving.

I go inland out of the: villages along tl
rivers in the interior of British Guian
I live where I can. I eat as I can. I sper
in the schools, show slides where the:
is electricity. I travel with the pries
school officers, forestry people,
dians—just anybody who will take
almost never have to pay. I cannot eat
money, for I’m not allowed to. Whent
people give a jar of jam or a coin,
precerally accept, for they give in lo
Mrs. Hope gives me four bananas eve
time I see her. “But Mrs. Hope,
protest, “you must let me give ye
something.” She squelches me with
want nothing but your praise.” |

I know I'll be provided for. I knoy
won't go too hungry, for I haven’t the
months and years. People in remo
areas are so thankful for a little bit
brightness. Somehow supplies come.
have clothing after a fashion. There
shelter and fod I’m rich, not in mate:
things, but in the knowledge that I
helping to make life richer for hundreé
maybe thousands, of people.

Henprika ToL, Georgetow
British Guiat

BE YOURSELF

Dear Editors: Nowadays, all childr
are supposed to adjust to medioeri
This extends to their physical appe
ance too. Why can’t we be what we ar
There’s a place for every type in th
world. The aggressive are the leaders,
shy contribute in the arts, the fighte
take a definite stand on things, and (|
passive are the balance wheels. Ever
fits someplace, so let’s stop trying |
make ourselves into something alt
to our natures. ai
Virernta GLIDEWELL, Los Angeles, cal

INTELLIGENT MAN

Dear Editors: Please forgive me 1}
reading “What Every Intelligent Wont
Should Know About Education.” I}
tend to read it several more times a}
am the father of two daughters.
Epwarp J. PAuLey, Hawthorne, Cal

@ Nothing to forgive. It happens »

the time.—ED

1962 Frigidaire Washer No.
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OMNAAPWNHE

“Test Years”’
Usage Agitator
To Date Mechanism

Pome None
18.8 None
15.2 None
13.6 None
L3!5 None
PS.s None
TSE None
ee None
12.9 None
None
None
None
None
None
None
None
None
None
None

Repairs to

Repairs to
Spinning Miscellaneous
Mechanism Repairs

None 1 (Minor)*
None None
None 1 (Minor)
None 1 (Minor)
None 1 (Minor)
None None
None 1 (Minor)
None None
None 1 (Minor)
None 1 (Minor)
None 1 (Minor)
None None
None None
None None
None None
None None
None None
None None
None None

*A minor repair is one which could be made in your home in approximately one hour.

Just a few months ago, Frigidaire Division of
General Motors Corporation announced a gru-
eling endurance test for Frigidaire Automatic

Washers— the Frigidaire 15-Year Lifetime Test!

So far, nineteen typical 1962 Frigidaire
Washers selected at random and representing
every price class, have been started on the test.
Each has operated 24 hours a day, 7 days a
week. Each washer goes through the entire
washing action, complete with detergents and
laundry. With such day and night operation it
isn’t very long before each machine will wash,
rinse and spin-dry as many loads of laundry
as the average homemaker would wash in 15
years! The chart above gives the entire story in

detail for the first 8 months of the test.

Together, these washers have operated for
the equivalent of 246 years. More than half
never have required any repair of any kind!
Those which did, operated an average of nearly
9 years before a repair was necessary — far
beyond the average life of most automatic
washers. The best non-stop record is 18.8 years
—and still turning out load after load of per-
fectly-laundered clothing.

Notice that not a single machine in the en-

tire test program has required repairs to the
patented 3-Ring “Pump” Agitator and its mech-
anism—heart of the Frigidaire Washer’s Action.

Clip this chart and take it to your Frigidaire
Dealer. Ask him to demonstrate a Frigidaire Au-
tomatic Washer—the Washer that gets clothes
sparkling clean—bathes deep dirt out without
beating! Your Dealer will be proud to show you
these new marathon performers in the Frigidaire
Family of Dependable Appliances, products of
General Motors.

“FRIGIDAIRE

Are American mothers really spoiling their children? Are the 60 million members of the
coming generation getting spanked? This month’s poll by Dr. George Gallup asked some
direct, forceful questions of present-day American mothers—young women who have two
or more children under 16. What do they think about discipline, allowances, the effect
of material abundance on their children? What do they think of themselves as mothers?

JHE PROBLEMS OF RAISING GHILDRER

Young mothers from coast to coast accept
wholesale (86 percent) the gospel that Amer-
ican children are spoiled—‘“‘We are raising
hothouse plants,’ as one mother put it—but
the generality refers to other people’s children.
Within their own homes, they admit they are
tempering and enriching the upbringing they
had themselves (for the most part during the
depression years); 60 percent say they are less
strict than their parents were. Yet three quar-
ters are persuaded that their own children are
less spoiled than their friends’ or neighbors’,
almost all give problems of discipline serious
thought, and the rod is far from spared. In
91 percent of our sample households, the chil-
dren get spanked.

Our sample this month knocked on the
doors of mothers who have two or more chil-
dren, none over 16. All but a few of the mothers
were in their twenties or thirties, 79 percent
were high-school graduates or better, and 54
percent of their husbands were in business or
the professions or had white-collar jobs. As a
whole, they represented the top two thirds of
our nation in education and income, and they
are viewing with very real concern their own
power to shower on their children the abun-
dance associated with the “‘good life.’

As one Florida mother put it, ‘““The luxuries
and comforts of American living today are
available to the middle as well as the upper
class. Items related to our comfort and well-
being have become an accepted and expected
part of daily living, rather than won by plan-
ning, working and the pride of knowing ‘well
done.’”’

A Pennsylvania mother summarizes firmly,
“We spoil them from the cradle up.”

Yet the 14 percent of our mothers who do
not think Americans are spoiling their chil-

dren—or at least not ruinously—have thei
spokesmen, too, wary of making generalities.

They may have done a better job of reconciling
their view of America with how they are rais-
ing their own children in their own homes.

“I feel American children grow up to be a
great people,” says a thoughtful mother in
Lowa. ‘“Maybe we spoil them by giving them
too much money and freedom, but they end
up taking care of the rest of the world. We spoil
them with kindness usually, but they in turnare
kind to almost everyone. Spoiled and kind.”

And says a very young mother in New
Orleans, “I feel that younger parents tend to
be more interested in a well-behaved child. A
real ‘spoiled brat’ is not well behaved. Amer-
ican parents may enjoy giving their children
what they can (usually, when young, not very
much!), they also insist on good behavior.
This I do not call spoiling.”

This may be a less mixed-up view than that
of the woman who angrily wrote, ‘Parents
encourage poor citizenship, economic illiter-
acy, false values and snob appeal,’’ but whose
own 15-year-old son has his “‘personal T'V set”’
(unplugged when he is being punished).

American parents believe thoroughly in
punishment, and use it frequently. Differ-
ences in attitude toward discipline seem to be
more a matter of personality than of “‘mother’’
vs. “father” roles. A small majority of our
mothers (54 percent) think they are less strict
than their husbands, but a substantial 41 per-
cent think they are stricter. As to whose views
about discipline usually win out, mother’s or
father’s, the largest number (38 percent) either
really couldn’t say, or reported no disagree-
ments.

In an attempt to find out exactly when and
how discipline is used in these representative
homes, we asked our mothers to describe in
detail the last time their first child and their
second child had seriously misbehaved, and
what the family had done about it. The results

made lively reading. Some of our mothers
eliminated themselves from this question (17
percent for oldest child, 29 percent for next
oldest) on grounds that the children were too
young to misbehave or be punished. Another
fraction (8 percent and 7 percent) reported
“no real misbehavior to punish for.”’ For the
rest (75 percent), their children are behaving
as children will. They are giving themselves
haircuts, smoking cigars, throwing socks in the
fire, turning guinea pigs loose in the living
room, and pouring talcum powder all over the
furniture. They are also socking their little
sisters, refusing to do the dishes, putting off
practicing the piano and failing to hang up
their clothes. A few are “mishandling” the
truth, flunking at school, staying out late,
stealing and regularly defying their parents.
In the instances described, what did the
mothers and fathers do? About 40 percent
reasoned, explained or scolded, whether to first
or second child. But 80 percent (many in
addition to the scolding) took one of three pre-
ferred courses of drastic action: they took
away privileges, inflicted corporal punishment
or sent the child to his room or bed. (Second
children have a tough age problem: 30 percent
of them were spanked, 27 percent had priv-
ileges removed, while only 23 percent of their
older siblings were spanked, 34 percent had
privileges removed.) Another small percent
made their children sit in a chair or stand ina
corner, and a few thought of unique punish-
ments on the spot. (The mother of the 15-
year-old boy who smoked a cigar reports, ““My
husband gave him a cheap foot-long cigar, had
him sit in the living room and smoke it com-
pletely. We think this cured him.”’’)
Although so many parents use it, punish-
ment tends to be an impulsive, individual
gesture. Time and again, in detailing what
happened last

CONTINUED ON PAGE 10

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time a child was punished, the mother con-
fesses to sheer emotional turbulence. From
New York: “My pediatrician advised me to
ignore him and he will get over these tantrums
faster, but | am human and it makes me feel
better to swat him.”’ From Louisiana: “My
daughter refused to let me put something on
her plate, and held it away from me. I asked
her three times to put her plate on the table,
but she refused, so I pulled her hair very hard.
I know it wasn’t the proper way to punish her,
but I lost my patience.” From New York:
“She sassed me and interrupted me when I was
talking to some neighbors. I slapped her across
the mouth.”

Because of the strong emotions involved, no
rules of when and how to punish at what age
emerged from our survey. Except for the fact
that spankings or whippings do tend to dis-
appear after children are 13 or so (“Fa-
ther was going to turn our 15-year-old daugh-
ter over his knee. I said, ‘Too old!’ She was
grounded for a week instead’’), both age of
child and degree of violence have a wide range.
One mother spanks her 1-year-old when she
cries at night for her bottle. Another spanked
her 5-year-old and kept him in bed for the rest
of the day because he sucked a button off his
pajama top (“I told him only babies sucked
things”). A St. Louis mother tells the follow-
ing story: “Our son went next door to watch
TV. He was supposed to come home at 6
o’clock, came in at 9. My husband made him
stand in a corner with his hands on his head.
Only he forgot the boy, who stood there in the
corner for two hours.’ The boy’s age was 5.

At the other end of the scale is the imagina-
tive New York mother who handles her 5-year-
old’s tantrums by ‘“‘dramatic, diverting action—
even to spilling a whole box of cookies. This is
really infallible !’’ Moderating between the two
is the California mother who uses both love
and discipline. “Our three-year-old is learning
not to take toys away from his younger sister
Sometimes he is sent to his room. He has im-
proved a lot. We always end a disciplinary
move by telling him that we love him and giv-
ing him a hug. We are all smiling by this time.”

How well punishment works is another
large question. Some parents look no further
than immediate, fast results. From Brooklyn.
“He wouldn’t do a thing, just annoyed and got
on my nerves. My husband gave him a good
licking with the cat-o’-nine-tails and boy, did
he change.” Time and again, mothers tell of
one rare or exceptional act of misbehavior that
was quickly cured by swift action. A mother
whose small, good-natured son suddenly be-
came rude first talked to him, then gave him a
quick slap. To her surprise, ““He spent the rest
of the evening in a congenial mood.”

But there is ample evidence that the more
often a family punishes, the more frustrating
the process becomes. “I frankly believe we both
do too much spanking for the wrong things to
both our children—also too much yelling. I
don’t notice them getting any better for it.”’ Or
from Texas, “I have to be after the kids and
spank them from morning till night—all day,
some days. From the time they get up, we are
going round and round. Especially on week-
ends, it’s awful.”

Oz family reports that the bullying of their
oldest boy ‘only got worse”’ when they pun-
ished. They helped him get a paper route, and
now, “he has less time for nagging, more self-
confidence. He doesn’t look on the younger
ones with such distaste.” Another family
found that “spankings, talkings, etc.” did no
good when their son repeatedly took money
from his mother’s wallet. “This last time I
simply gave him $2 extra with his allowance.”
No thefts to date.

One thing is sure—most mothers take no
pleasure in punishing, and many are often un-
certain they are doing the right thing. A few
can say positively, like the Oklahoma mother,
“My children were paddled hard in the place
| provided for such punishment!’ But a Texas
woman speaks for many when she says, “I
think when they do misbehave, it is because
[am a very emotional person myself. When I

am upset and nervous, they react accord-
| ingly.” A.St. Louis mother, telling of her
daughter’s defiance, said, ‘‘This time was too

much, and she had to get a good wallop. I
suppose she has quite a few of my ways, for
I recognize them.”

Almost half (43 percent) our mothers find it
tough to stick to their own threats. “After I’ve
taken away privileges, I find myself feeling
sorry for them and usually giving in com-
pletely,” says one mother. Adds another,
“Statesmen can deliver an ultimatum and
back down; parents can’t—or shouldn’t. Yet
I’ve delivered the ultimatum in anger, and am
ashamed of myself for losing control, so I do.”
Almost a// the mothers who tend to spank first
(28 percent) report that this is the hardest
punishment for them to carry out. “I spank a
lot,” says an Oklahoma mother, “perhaps
more than I should, but it ‘tears me up’ emo-
tionally. I don’t like it.” And a New Jersey
mother says gloomily, “I hate to admit it, but
almost a// forms of punishment are hard for

NOW IN
THIS GOLDEN TUMBLE
OF JOY.

By ALEXANDER TAYLOR

Now in this golden tumble of joy

How | wish the thimble of grief

Were not true,

How | wish | could rant and rave
it away,

Tear down mountains, paste the
sun in the sky.

Sue and Ann, our children, shall
spin the tale,

Which we, beholden, shall follow,

And pray

That all the witches along that
mottle way

Will never bring to them a single
sorrow.

These moments now so wholly
here

Imperceptively vanish into
everywhere,

But say,

How | would surrender all my
yesterday

To buy the surety of their
tomorrow.

me to carry out. I get tired of punishing and of
the sound of my own voice. Sad but true.”

Not only do our families practice discipline
(however emotionally), they hold down allow-
ances, take their children to church and offer
them the challenge of being better educated,
better people than they. On the average, boys
and girls in these families are teenage before
they get as much as a dollar a week allowance.
Eight out of ten boys over 15 do outside work
for pay, as do six out of ten girls.

Over half our families (53 percent) “hardly
ever miss” church, and 80 percent attend
more than once a month. Ninety percent send
their children to Sunday School, and three
quarters say religion is an important part of
their daily lives.

Ninety-two percent of our families would
like to see their oldest children go to college,
and two thirds are prepared to see them there
even if the children don’t earn scholarship aid.
An astonishing 52 percent of our relatively
young parents have already started putting
aside savings for education. When their chil-
dren do poorly in schoolwork, half offer en-
couragement or concrete help with homework,
or both. Only 6 percent try punishment (re-
stricting activities) for this problem.

And the American home, according to our
sample, is no matriarchy. Eighty-five percent
of our wives are sure their husbands are as in-
terested in the children as they, and another 3
percent say their husbands are more inter-
ested. The fathers play with both sons and
daughters (slightly more with sons), and 79

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAI

percent never complain, “I work hard to give
you and the children what you want.”

When our mothers were asked what quality
or qualities lacking in their husbands they
would most like to see in a son, the /arges
single group (26 percent) could think of none
they only hoped their sons would be as fine a:
their fathers. Many mothers spoke with ob
vious feeling on this score. “I would want hin
to be a duplicate of his father. My husband i:
a man who is honest, hardworking, amusing
sociable, kind—you name it, that’s him.’ ©
“If my son turns out as well as my husband
I'll be the happiest woman in the world.”

Ba that leaves nearly three quarters wh
see room for improvement. A few had rathe
special improvements in mind; one mothe
would like her son to play the drums, anotite
to “replace lids securely.” But one fifth spoki
of characteristics that make for harmony 1
the home (understanding, patience, tole
ance, generosity”’) while 12 percent would li
their sons to have easier relations outside th
home (“less reserve, easier to know, friend
lier”). The others covered a broad spect
of characteristics, from “burning intellectua
curiosity” to “more religion,” but almost a
were interior qualities. Only 3 percent care
most about having their sons neater, and no
body at all said she wanted her son richer
Said one disgruntled Ilinois wife, howevel
“Perhaps being more ready to hand out com
pliments to their wives. Ha!”

The ideal number of children, most of o
families believe, is three, and this, in fact,
the median number possessed by our sample
When asked how raising children has affecte
their love for their husbands, just about ha
the mothers said they loved their husbané
“more,” and almost all the rest felt their lo
would be the same, with or without childrer

An unlucky 4 percent loved their husband
less, but this segment seems to be mad 4
everybody—themselves and their childre
too. As one of them put it, “Children ha
made me short-tempered and fat.”

Wrote one happy young wife, still in
twenties, ““A lot more love, understandi
compassion and humor have been brougk
into the house with the coming of children
but love was basically there, and the childre}
have just enriched it more.”’ Said another ¢
the same age, “Children have helped expan
my husband’s personality. I see him in gent!
moods, playful moods, angry moods. I like t
see him take our son’s hand and walk in th
snow, or see him nuzzle the baby.”

American mothers are sure (84 perceni
that motherhood has “matured” them, a
only a little less sure (65 percent) that it he
made them better persons; i.e., less selfis!
more patient, more understanding of huma
frailty (everyone’s frailty, as well as the
children’s). In all our survey, only two wome
an artist and a chemist, complained of givir
up their personal interests for their childre
Said the chemist, “I have had to give up
career and keep house, which I detest.”

This is a rarely heard complaint indeed.
all the things that might weigh on a your
mother’s mind as she raises her children-
money, lack of time, drudgery or even ato
bombs—the thing that weighs most heavily
her anxious question as to whether she is pe
forming her role well. ““My greatest question.
said a young woman in Tennessee, “is: am
giving them the basic principles needed to li)
in today’s world?’ Our mothers long for @
impossibly serene wisdom as they handle da
to-day misadventures. As one mother puts}
“T get upset over minor things, especially
I’m overly tired. Sometimes I worry if
handle them correctly.” Another sums up
widespread self-doubt as: “Lack of full coi
fidence in my decisions.” z

But amid the doubts, mistakes, and eve
the sounds of those paddlings in the pla:
Nature provided, it is possible to detect a ne
generation on the way: “Our daughter is a re
doll. Loves everyone and everything, efferve
cent, excited, happy. a student, takes dancil
and violin lessons, plays ball, fishes, just ever
thing. She really loves life and is a joy to ha
around. She’s president of the 4-H club, seer
tary of her class, very popular. She has no tir
to act up or misbehave; cannot remember t)
last time she was punished.” EN

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PLAY BRIDGE

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Wali

By CHARLES AND PEGGY

SOLOMON
WORLD’S LEADING HUSBAND-AND-WIFE TEAM
NORTH
& 63
¥KJ10862
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WEST EAST
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THE BIDDING:
WEST NORTH EAST SOUTH

1 Club 1 Heart 1 Spade 2 No Trump
Pass 3 Hearts Pass 3 No Trump
Pass Pass Pass

WEST OPENS THE @A

Once in a blue moon there is an
opportunity to make a spectacular
play. By calling it spectacular, we
don’t mean that the maneuver is of
the show-off variety. The type of
discard that developed in this curio
is the kind that bridge authorities
have been looking for ever since our
favorite pastime began.:

Such grandstand plays are sup-
posed to occur only in textbooks or
‘columns. Well, this little number
came up in real life, all right. I can
testify that West found the super-
duper move that put us in the minus
column. Luckily this deal did not oc-
cur ina tournament (if it did, we would
have scored very poorly). Instead,
we lost—but only some filthy lucre.

It was rubber bridge and the locale
‘was beautiful Honolulu. We were
playing “‘cut-in’’ with several of our
Life Master friends. Sitting West
‘was Don von Elsner, the famous
mystery writer and one of Hawaii's
top performers. In the East position
jacs Gerald Pool, president of the
island’s bridge unit.

_There’s a possibility that this am-
bitious three-no-trump venture (a
slight push by yours truly) might
‘have been defeated without West’s
| brilliant play. Had I misguessed the
jlocation of the heart honors, the
contract would surely have been
doomed. But Don’s defense didn’t
"give me a chance to show my
| prowess. Without bragging, I am
) quite certain I’d have guessed cor-
rectly in hearts. First of all, if East

had the missing ace, the hand was
hopeless because spades were already
established. Thus, I’d have to play
West for this key honor. Next, if
West held the ace, queen and one or
two small hearts, the situation would
still be under control. I’d merely
concede two tricks in the heart de-
partment rather than risk a finesse
to let East in with his queen and
those setting spade tricks.

Forgetting percentages, it was al-
most a certainty that West held the
heart ace. Don had little enough for his
initial bid. He wouldn’t have opened
without that card. Thus I simply
could not go wrong—if left alone!

A few words on the bidding. In
this wonderfully exhilarating atmos-
phere, I was in no mood for a part
score. Even with a bit less, I’d prob-
ably have made the jump to two no
trump despite the questionable spade
stopper. Four hearts wouldn’t have
had a chance, while there was a great
play for game at no trump.

Mr. Von Elsner opened the spade
ace. East, seeing no prospects in the
other suits, asked for a continuation
by playing his eight. Mr. Pool’s king
won the second trick. Convinced of
the futility of switching to his single-
ton club and hoping, somehow, his
heart queen would provide the
much-needed entry, Jerry exited with
the spade jack. This was a great play
on his part—an advanced kind of
lead directive.

At that moment, however, I was
delighted with the proceedings. Ev-
erything was operating according to
schedule. But wait! On my queen of
spades, naturally now a winner, the
very astute Mr. Von Elsner dis-
carded the ace of hearts! This one
little (?) gesture stopped me dead in
my tracks.

Though the play was certainly
breathtaking, it was also far from a
blind stab. From the auction, it was
apparent that I had full control of
the minor suits. West’s chance of
stopping the avalanche, then, seemed
to lie in creating an “in” card for his
partner’s long spades. The only hope
of finding such a hidden entry was in
the heart suit. East’s return of the
spade jack could certainly be inter-
preted as an announcement that he
had some values there. Otherwise,
he’d have led back a low or inter-
mediate spade at trick three.

If East held only a doubleton heart
including the queen, I would un-
doubtedly have guessed the layout
by playing the king on the first round
when West held up on his ace. Then,
on the next round, the ace and queen
would have fallen together. West,
saddled with the lead, would be able
to make no damaging return.

Now if I had held the queen, Don
would have presented Peggy and me
with an extra 30 points. But as he
said later: “Who cares about this
small contribution to aworthycause ?”’

Anyway, when he jettisoned the
ace, he put the kibosh on my best-
laid plans. There was now no way to
keep East from getting the lead with
his heart queen.

I hope, however, I was gentleman
enough to pay full tribute to Don’s
swell decision. It is one great play
that didn’t occur on Page 87 of a
certain textbook. Instead, I felt the
ax descend on my own neck. I hope
we can get back to the fiftieth state
in the near future. We’d like to do
some “‘cutting up” of our own.

flavor of §

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The two most trusted words
in meat. Our 107th Year

@ To know how to cook is knowledge which will
admit a girl into most inner circles, one of them
a wedding ring. I’ve never heard of aman leaving
a woman because she was a good cook. Have
you?

e@ What more refreshing, invigorating, rejuvenat-
ing than crisp greens in the spring? Don’t forget
to include the chartreuse of chopped celery tops
and the deep green of chicory. Toss in a bunch
of seedless grapes bobbing around like iri-
descent bubbles, and try the new package of
salad-dressing mix that features Parmesan-
cheese flavor. Delectable!

@ Acome-hither aroma in the kitchen more se-
ductive than Cleopatra’s perfume accompanies
my favorite way of simmering veal—quick and
delicious. You won’t find this one in cookbooks.
Dredge 1-pound slice of veal steak on both sides,
using 1 tablespoon flour, ¥% teaspoon salt and
Ys teaspoon pepper. Brown in 2 tablespoons
cooking oil. Lift out and brown 1 cup sliced onions
in same pan. Push to side of pan, put back veal.
Spoon onions over veal. Add % cup chili sauce
and 1‘cup water. Cover and simmer 45 minutes,
until tender. Add 1 cup grated Cheddar cheese;
heat until cheese melts.

@ In the spring, before the summer crop of
fresh fruits makes you forget old friends, sim-
mer prunes, raisins, cut-up apples with a stick
of cinnamon. The perfume of this trio cooking
will penetrate every nook and cranny of the
house. Children, home from school, will ex-
claim, ‘‘What is that, mother, what is it?’’

e@ Vocal tranquilizer: woman humming in the
kitchen.

@ Everyone has a pet way of broiling chicken,
but listen to mine; it’s marinated into flavor!
| mix 1 cup cooking oil, % cup wine vinegar, 1
teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon monosodium gluta-
mate, a little paprika, a little hot dry mustard,
a dash of liquid hot-pepper seasoning, and 1
clove garlic, crushed. Mix well, pour over the
broilers as they rest in a wide shallow pan. Let
2 hours go by, then broil, basting all the while. If
you live where the weather is balmy, cook on
your outside grill when the coals are aglow.

e@ What do you suppose the members of the
soda-fountain set are sprinkling on their sodas
and sundaes? Nutmeg! Try it. Delicious!

@ Cracker chatter: Crumble fine a few round
yellow cheese crackers and stir into hot buttery
string beans in that moment of transferring
from the range to serving dish. Gives a nutlike
flavor

@ For a hasty but stylish supper from the
freezer: shrimp curry, quick-cooking rice, the
wide satisfying Italian green beans, and straw.
berries deluxe—all supermarket items. Serve
the fruit in its own syrup with a choice of un
expected flavors: drizzle of honey; teaspoon of
frozen orange juice, thawed; scattering of
toasted almonds; spoonful of raspberry jam or
currant jelly. Wonderful!

@ Anyone who can walk, drive or fly is greeted
warmly atour Penn’s Grant Farmonamoment’s
notice. There’s an unexpected-company shelf
for these welcome visitors. Last Sunday it was
this salad: 1 can luncheon meat cut into strips,
plus cubes of leftover roast, 2 or 3 tomatoes,
peeled and cut into quarters, % cup diced cel-
ery and 2 hard-cooked eggs, sliced. | mixed it
with French dressing and served it on a bed of
crisp lettuce.

@ Here’s a new salad dressing to buzz up in
your blender. Mix % cup salad oil, 2 tablespoons
vinegar, 1 tablespoon prepared horseradish,
1 teaspoon salt, a little pepper, 1 teaspoon
paprika, 1 teaspoon dry mustard, 1 teaspoon
sugar, 1 clove garlic, crushed, % small onion, %
peeled avocado, % peeled cucumber, 1 peeled
tomato.

@ No blender? Chop the vegetables fine, purée
the avocado. Mix in seasonings and oil and
shake like anything.

FROM ME TO YOU

By MARCELENE COX

Feeding the ducks is a favorite pastime
with the children at Penn's Grant Farm.

@ A grandmother's kitchen is known by the
number of half-eaten apples and cookies you
find there

@ Rhubarb Pink—the same shade of pink as the
juice that oozes out of a rhubarb pie just from
the oven—would make a lovely color for your
fingernails. (Cherry Jubilee and Pink Melba have
already been borrowed from the kitchen to en-
hance the appeal of polishes.) To make rhubarb
taste as good as it looks, cook it in water and
Sugar in the double boiler—keeps pieces from
breaking up. Drop acinnamon candy in the juice
if you want a deep pink

@ Fora different approach, try a deluxe topping
on your next apple pie. And what is deluxe?
Sweetened whipped cream, of course, with a
spoonful of apple juice poured over as the fork
waits to descend

DI PIETRO

@ Did you know that you can poach rounded
spoonfuls of meringue in hot milk (5 minutes),
then use the milk, strained, to combine with ©
the egg yolks for soft custard pudding? Float |
meringues on the custard. Why not name them
“White Balloons’’? Children adore them. Won-
derful with chocolate pudding too.

@ Knowing a good basic biscuit recipe is like
owning a good basic black dress. | was years
learning that the secret of making perfect bak-
ing-powder biscuits is to have the dough moist-* §
so moist that it needs a sprinkling of flour on the
board before it can be patted out. If you are
having trouble, see if this pointer doesn’t help.

e@ There are two foods that go together (like |
sunshine and daffodils): glazed carrots and
applesauce.

@ Food affinities are as fashionable as color |
combinations. Have you tried frozen peas with |
little whole onions or mushrooms, or the corn,
peas and tomatoes? These are among my |
favorites and they come combined now in
frozen packages. An all-in-one answer to what
to serve with steak or a lamb roast.

@ Look—no cooking! For a delightful chilled |
chicken-watercress bisque, thin 1 can con: |
densed cream-of-chicken soup with half as |
much milk or water. Add % cup each chopped |
water chestnuts and chopped watercress. Chill! |

@ Now that cold-soup season is coming in, I’ve |
discovered that the dried leek-and-potato soup,
cooked according to package directions, chilled |
and dressed up with sour cream, chives and a
sprinkle of curry powder, makes a heavenly
vichyssoise I’m proud to serve company.

tive and mouth-watering names? Who could re- |
sist the sound of butterflake rolls, angel flake
coconut, butter-pecan or raspberry-sundae |
cake mixes, smoky green-pea soup, or broiled-

in-butter mushrooms, for instance? io i

@ Did you know that Liederkranz means a
wreath of song? Here’s a rarebit to sing about:
Melt 2 tablespoons butter or margarine with FF
2 (4-0z.) packages ripened Liederkranz cheese, §
rind and all. Stir over low heat until cheese melts. |
Add a dash of salt and cayenne and 1 cup light |
cream. Remove from heat. Meanwhile, sauté |
1% cups thinly sliced onions in 2 tablespoons |
butter or margarine. Add 2 beaten eggs to the |
rarebit. Return to heat and cook gently until’
slightly thickened. Toast 6 slices bread on both= |.
sides under the broiler. Put a spoonful of the |
sauteed onions on each toast slice. Top with’ |
rarebit. If you own a chafing dish, it’s fun to |
make the rarebit at the table.

Once a meal is served,
There’s simply no renown
For the hostess who

Keeps jumping up and down.

NEW! PARMESAN
SALAD DRESSING MIX

Parmesan Dressings no one can buy
..-. you make them with this GOOD SEASONS MIX

Good Seasons Parmesan Dressing. You’ll taste real Parmesan
and Romano cheese, too, in every drop of this fresh dressing. Cheeses
aged ripe and piquant, as Italy’s finest. Blended with a touch of
garlic, a tiny spike of mustard, and subtle seasonings to underscore
the bright flavor. A new delight for cheese-eaters! To make the dress-
ing: just combine your favorite oil, vinegar and a little water with the
Mix. Easy directions are on the Good Seasons envelope. Takes seconds.

Quick Caesar Salad. Toss bite-size pieces of romaine

SRS lettuce or other greens with Parmesan Dressing and an-
SS chovies (optional). Ripe olives, too, if you like. Add slightly
NO beaten egg and croutons. Toss again. Easiest, fresh Caesar
salad in the world. The grated Parmesan and garlic are

already in your dressing!

More Salad Ideas. This most popular Italian cheese gives
an appealing new flavor to all salads. Do try it with these:
green salads, tomatoes, vegetables, orange-onion salad, avo-
cados, sea food, potato, chicken or meat salads. Conversa-
tion-makers for your next dinner party.

Parmesan-Wine Dressing. Substitute any dry wine for
the water when making your dressing. Gives extra sparkle.

Get the handsome Good Seasons cruet, with measure-
ments marked, where you buy the 9 Mixes: Onion,
Classic, Cheese-Garlic, Italian, Bleu Cheese, Exotic
Herbs, Garlic, Old Fashion French and new Parmesan.

~~ 2 TOR red el
~

Never underestimate the difference between the
sexes. If you think men and women are pretty much

alike, ask a few simple questions:

What color is it?

Her: “It’s an unusual, muted shade—deeper than
coffee, but more subtle than chutney. Actually, in
certain lights, it looks almost bronze. And it has a
tiny gold thread running through the weave that
gives it a faintly luminous cast.”

Him: “It’s brown.”

Where are you going on your vacation
this year?

Him: ‘‘Well, we don’t have any definite plans yet,
but I read about this lake basin at 8500 feet in the
High Sierra. Snow-capped peaks on three sides and
you won't see another soul for days at a time. You
pack in on horseback, and take just bacon and beans
and a fly rod. You don’t need much because you can
practically live on fish. The lakes are thick with
golden rainbows and brook trout. It sounds like
paradise !’’

Her: ‘‘Well, we don’t have any definite plans yet,
but the Grays went to this divine resort near Palm
Springs. The cabanas are absolutely deluxe, and the
service is elegant. They even bring you breakfast in
bed. The cuisine is French, and the place is crawling
with movie stars. Very dressy. I suppose it’s ex-
pensive, but I do feel that«a vacation is one time
when you ought to lap up a bit of glamour, don’t
you?”

What's wrong with the car?

Him: “I think the trouble is in the generator. The
brushes are probably worn or the voltage regulator is
set too low. The ammeter shows that it isn’t charging
properly.”’

Her: “I press on the little doohicky, and it won’t

start.”

Were you surprised to hear about
the Wainwrights’ divorce ?

Her: “I’m only surprised it didn’t happen a long
time ago. I can’t imagine how Ethel put up with Joe
all these years. You know how antisocial he is, and
he never did a thing to help her around the house.

Why, she actually had to clip the hedge herself, as if

BY JANE GOODSELL

she didn’t have enough to do, being president of the
auxiliary and everything. That’s another thing about
Joe— he never gave Ethel credit for anything. In-
stead of being proud of her community activities, he
made fun of her. Joe’s trouble is that he’s emotion-
ally immature, and he felt threatened by Ethel’s
accomplishments. And what’s more ——”

Him: “Surprised? Why, no! The way that woman

”

nagged poor old Joe —- -

How did your redecorating turn out?

Her: “Oh, we’re delighted with it! The walls and
draperies are bone white, and the sofa is upholstered
in blue-and-green-flowered linen. We built floor-to-
ceiling bookcases on the south wall, and we bought a
pair of wing-back chairs for either side of the fire-
place, and ——”

Him: “It cost twice as much as we figured, and
now there isn’t a decent place to sit and read in the

whole room.”

Is your cold better ?

Him: “It takes a lot to get me down, but that cold
was a lulu! If the truth were known, I'll bet I had
pneumonia. My wife was really worried and wanted
to call the doctor, but I’m the type that hates to ad-
mit he’s sick, and besides, they’d probably have put
me in the hospital ——”

Her: “‘Oh, he’s fine. It didn’t amount to much.
Just a case of the sniffles. You know what babies

men can be.”

Did you meet the guest of honor?

Her: ‘Yes, and he’s charming. His accent is de-
lightful, and he has a delicious dry wit. He’s a good
listener, too, interested in what you have to say. He’s
a truly civilized human being, but underneath his
urbanity you can detect a feeling of loneliness and a
little boy longing to be liked.”

Him: “‘What a phony!”

What did they serve for dinner?

Her: “The most marvelous paella, made with
lobster and shrimp and Italian sausage and chicken.
It was seasoned with an unusual herb, and flavored
with white wine. It looked gorgeous, too, served in
an enormous earthenware casserole.”’

Him: “Rice and fish and stuff, all gucked up to-
gether.”

What did you think of that triple play
im the game last night?

Him: “‘Say, wasn’t that something! You don’t see
a play like that more than twice in a lifetime! Top of
the ninth, nobody out and the Sox are hanging onto
a one-run lead. The first two Bisons get singles, and
then Martinelli hits this screaming liner right into
Joey Murawski’s glove! He tags up, and the peg to
first base is perfect! Beautiful!”

Her: “What triple play?”

Have you recovered from your
dinner party?

Her: “Don’t mention it! Just thinking about it
gives me the heebie-jeebies. Can you imagine? Ten
people coming to dinner, a seven-rib roast to cook and
the oven goes on the blink! I had to cart the meat over
to the neighbors’, and then tear home to start calling
repairmen. Have you ever tried to get an electri¢ian
at five-thirty on a Saturday? And then, to top it off,
the gelatin salad didn’t stiffen, and Bob forgot to buy
vermouth and the baby was cutting a tooth and ——”

Him: “I can’t understand why Marge always gets
hysterical over a few people coming to dinner.”

Was ita pretty wedding ?

Her: “Exquisite! It was an all-white wedding,
flawless in every detail. The flower arrangements
were breathtaking, and the food was elegant. I took
mental notes from beginning to end because it’s the
sort of wedding I’d like my own daughters to have
when the time comes.”

Him: “‘The champagne alone must have cost poor
Herb a small fortune. Believe you me, I’m not going
to throw a blowout like that for my kids. I’m going
to buy a ladder and help them elope.”

Have you seen the new baby?

Her: “Oh, he’s the most precious little thing! He
has enormous dark eyes, and the sweetest little rose-
bud mouth and adorable fat cheeks. His hair was
black at first, but now it’s coming in blond and I
wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be curly. His
name is Charles, but they call him Chucky.”

Him: “I think it’s a girl.”

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By JOHN PRINCE. Our expert Washington
party giver offers one of his favorite recipes for
a conversation-making dinner that frees a
hostess from all last-minute worries.

Every hostess wants “‘something that every-
one else doesn’t have,” preferably something
that “‘makes a pretty table with unusual colors
and shapes’ —and smells and tastes. While an
established routine makes party preparations
easier, there are times when every hostess
would like to break away from il, and use
dishes and silver that don’t come out of the
cupboard very often.

What this hostess wants is what our
household calls “a meal with some sort of
sparkle to it.” When we want that, we fre-
quently get up a curry dinner. But not just
any curry. My wife and I start with visions of
a dinner like the ones we have eaten at the
Washington embassies of India, Pakistan or
Ceylon, where guests’ jewels must vie with the
most glittering array of dishes.

After that we come down to earth with our
own menu that keeps the Asian sparkle and
glitter but suits American palates. It is a
succession of stages and steps, but with no
fiendish complications. And every last bit of
it can be done hours before any guest arrives.

CURRIED TURKEY

tablespoons olive

or salad oil
tablespoons butter
small carrots, scraped
and finely chopped

WwW

1 cup coconut milk or water
4 beef-bouillon cubes or

4 teaspoons meat paste
14 cup flour
1 clove garlic, peeled and

» bh

6 stalks celery, finely crushed
chopped 1 quart water

1 large onion, peeled and 2 tablespoons red-currant
( hoppe d jelly

1 medium apple, cored, 2 teaspoons salt

peeled and chopped
114 tablespoons curry

Dash cayenne pepper
2 pounds cooked turkey

powder meat

eat the oil and butter in a large heavy kettle. Add
the chopped vegetables and apple and cook slowly for
about 10 minutes or until they begin to take on a bit

of color. Add the curry powder and heat, stirring, for

DINNER

WIDER
S/PRRICLES

MENU
Curried Turkey
Side Boys Fluffy White Rice
Fruit Bowl
Crisp Ginger Cookies
Coffee
PLANNED FOR SIX

2 minutes. Here, if you are using a fresh coconut,
knock out the eyes and pour in most of the milk (or
use 1 cup water), but leave a little inside the nut to
keep the meat moist until you grate it and serve as a
“side boy.”’ Continue cooking slowly for 15 minutes or
so. Add the bouillon cubes or meat paste, flour and
garlic. Stir in the water a little at a time and bring the
mixture to a boil, stirring. Add the jelly and then the
salt and cayenne—to taste. This will depend on the
strength of your curry powder. Simmer this mixture
for a good half hour. Then put through a food mill or
coarse strainer, discarding the part that will not go
through. Combine with the turkey meat, which has
been cut into bite-size pieces. Heat through in a
covered casserole in a slow oven or in a double boiler
over simmering water. If not wanted until, say, the
next day, cool, cover and leave in the refrigerator —or
freeze it and let it await your pleasure. Makes 6
servings.

SIDE BOYS

This is the funny name for the small spicy oddments
which are passed about to sprinkle over servings of a
curry meal. They are pretty, they are fun—both to
prepare and to eat. But choose wisely. At foreign em-
bassies it may be amusing to be offered a shark fin, but
do we want that at home, or is bacon and avocado
safer? And secondly, there is the question of what we
wish to spend. And thirdly, do we have time to go pok-
ing around in specialty shops to find such exotic things?

We solve all that this way: we skip the shark fins
and really offbeat items, and confine ourselves to what
can be found in any good grocery store. A nice collec-
tion of side boys can be had without much shopping.
Except for the chutney, which must be had, you may
have three or four side boys from wherever you could
buy a cabbage.

1. Chutney. Be sure that you have a mango chutney,
and that you have plenty of it.

2. Bacon and avocado. Crisp 8 slices of bacon and
break into shreds. Mix with 2 ripe, medium-size, peeled
and diced avocados. .

3. Egg whites. Put the whites of 2 hard-cooked eggs
through a fine sieve.

1. Egg yellows. Sieve the yolks of the same eggs.
5. A bowl of white seedless raisins.

6. A bowl of finely shredded green pepper, mixed
with grated orange rind.

7. A bowl of grated coconut. Here, if you have used 4}
the milk of the fresh nut in the main dish, you will
crack the nut and grate its meat. Otherwise, any moist
packaged grated coconut will do.

8. A bowl of ground peanuts.

9. A dish of fried bananas. Slice lengthwise in thin
slices, dip in flour and brown in butter.

(Note: The next two items you will have to find in
specialty stores. But they may be omitted.)

10. Bombay ducks. These have nothing to do with
duck. They are really dried fish from India, cleaned
and boned. Soak them in cold water, drain and fry in ~
a little cooking oil until they are crisp. Serve them >
warm. Each guest is to break them up with his fingers
over his individual serving of curry.

11. Pappadums. These are thin, spiced Indian
wafers. Drop them into a little hot cooking oil in a
frying pan. When they have spread out and puffed —
up, let them brown a moment and turn over for a few ~
seconds. They need not be served hot. They will re-
main crisp. The guests can break them up over their _
curry, or eat them intact as bread.

RICE

This is cooked according to package directions and
served plain. If you plan to hold it, leave the hot,
cooked, drained rice wrapped in a wet cloth in a
steamer or strainer over hot water until needed.

FRESH FRUIT

This meal requires no bread or salad, but does need a
dessert; something simple and cooling. We often use a
large bowl of fruits: sections of oranges, white grapes —
and pineapple or any other fruits that strike our fancy —
and are available. Pass with the fruit these very plain
ginger cookies and follow with coffee.

CRISP GINGER COOKIES
4 cups sifted flour 216-3 leaspoons ginger
l4 cup sugar 1 teaspoon cinnamon
14 teaspoon baking soda 1 pound (2 cups) butter
V% teaspoon salt 114 cups warm molasses

Sift the flour, sugar, soda, salt, ginger and cinnamon
together. Cut in the butter until the mixture is the
consistency of crumbs. Then stir in the warm—not
hot—molasses and mix quickly. Cover and chill
thoroughly. When quite stiff, divide the dough in half
and shape into rolls about 114” in diameter. Wrap
well in waxed paper or aluminum foil and hold in the
refrigerator until needed, or freeze. Slice thin and bake
in a moderate oven, 350° F., for about 10 minutes.
These cookies are best when freshly baked and the
dough holds well in the refrigerator or freezer. Makes
6 dozen very thin cookies.

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My mother was embarrassingly odd. She turned
into a troll or barked like a seal. She made peo-
ple laugh. It was mortifying!

My mother was a great handicap to me when I was
little. She was different. I learned this very early,
when I first left our yard and began going to other
children’s houses. At other children’s houses, when
the mother opened the door she said something sen-
sible, like, “‘Wipe your feet; and where’s the other
glove?” or ‘“‘ Wait a minute, you’re not bringing that
junk in here’; or “No. Play outside until I call you.”

At our house, however, when you rang the bell the
letter slot would open and a little high voice would
pipe out, ‘I’m the chief troll here. Is that you, Billy
Goat Gruff?’ Or you would hear a syrupy falsetto
sing the first few lines of Barnacle Bill: ‘‘Who’s that
knocking at my door?’’ Other times the door would
open a slit and my mother, crouched down to our eye
level, would say, “I’m the new little girl here. Wait a
minute, I’ll call my mother.”” Then the door would
close for a second, reopen and there would be my
mother—regular size. ‘““Oh, hello, girls,’ she’d say,
supposedly surprised, “I didn’t know you were there.”

In that awful first moment when my new friend
would turn to me with a disapproving “ what-kind-of-
a-place-is-this” look, I knew just how it felt to open a
closet and have the family skeleton sprawl! all over
you. “‘Mo-ther,” I would bawl indignantly, but by
then my mother, all propriety, would never admit
she had anything to do with the peculiar goings-on.
If we would accuse her of being the little girl who had
opened the door, for example, my mother would look
puzzled and deny there was any such person in her
house. Then a cozening look would tome into her
eyes. ‘‘ You girls are kidding me,”’ she’d say. We would
wind up protesting that a little girl had opened the
door when what we really meant was that vo little girl
had opened the door. It was all very confusing. And
different. That was the hard part. She was different
from other mothers.

Like the seal in the basement. When we were play-
ing outside while my mother was washing or ironing
in the basement, we would often hear a cheerful bark-
ing coming from down there. Our dog was usually out
playing with us and my mother’s explanation was

Mothers

Improve With

that it was our seal. Every Friday she made a great
show of unwrapping the fish (which eventually wound
up on the dinner table) for the seal. And though we
made countless dashes down to the basement trying to
catch the seal (who was painfully shy), he had always
“just gone for a ride in the bakery truck” or “was
taking his swimming lesson at the Y.’’ This seal was
also smart and friendly and would answer questions
by barking once for “‘yes’”’ and twice for “no.’’ His
reputation soon spread. Children came from blocks
around to ask questions of the seal at our basement
window. Mostly they wanted to know if such-a-one
were a good boy or would the Phillies win the pen-
nant. The seal was always good for a few barks.

I was mortified to be pointed out as the girl with
the seal, but my mother was equal to the occasion.
Often when a crowd of little boys would be huddled
at our window waiting for a bark, my mother would
open the door and call out gaily, “Hello, little girls.”
There was always a great explosion of indignation
from the boys, and mother would usually apologize by
passing out cookies.

My mother was no different with grownups. She
often greeted an acquaintance by poking a finger in
his back and growling, ‘“‘Stick ’em up.” The fact that
adults’ faces lighted up whenever they saw my mother
was no comfort to me. I knew they liked her. It was
easy for them. She wasn’t theiy mother.

Furthermore, they didn’t have to put up with the
Interested Observer. For as long as I can remember,
my mother carried on conversations about us with
this invisible but Interested Observer.

“Mercy, would you look at the kitchen floor,’’ my
mother would say.

“Mud all over it and you just finished scrubbing
and waxing it,” the I.O. would sympathize. ‘‘ Mother,
didn’t you tell them to use the basement door today ?”’

“Indeed I did; twice.”

“Well, don’t they care how hard you work or are
they just forgetful or what?’ the 1.0. would want to
know.

“T guess they’re just forgetful.”’

“Well, if they’ll get the clean rags under the sink
and wipe it up, it’ll help them to remember in the
future,” the I.O. would helpfully advise.

We would immediately get the rags and go to work.

By Jeanmarie Coogan

Although my mother clearly did the talking for
herself and the Interested Observer, the I.0.’s tone
was so clinical and impartial nobody ever questioned
his real, if invisible, presence. He was so plainly there,
notebook in hand, observing family life and its prob-
lems that my friends never asked, ““Who’s your
mother talking to?” but rather, ‘“‘Who’s that talking
to your mother?”

I never found a suitable answer.

Luckily my mother improved with age. Not her
age, but mine. I think I was about ten the first time I
ever realized that having a “‘different’’ mother could
be a good thing. The playground at the end of our
street had a cluster of very old, formidably high trees.
In our neighborhood, it was a mortal sin to climb ~
those trees. To climb them and be caught. brought
every mother for blocks shrieking and keening at the
foot of the trees, “Come down; you’ll break your
neck; do you want to be killed ?; just wait till your fa-
ther hears,” followed by~a good larruping for the
guilty ones. One day when we were all dizzily swaying
in the top branches, my mother passed and caught
sight of us silhouetted against the sky. We froze as
she hurried to the bottom of the tree, but her face as
she looked up at us was dazzling. “I didn’t know
you could climb so high,” she shouted up delightedly.
“That’s terrific. Don’t fall.’ And off she went. We
watched in silence until she was out of sight, then one
boy spoke for us all. “Wow,” he said softly, “wow.” |

Almost from that day on, I began to notice how my
classmates stopped at our house before going home;
how club meetings were always held in our kitchen;
how friends, ghostly silent in their own homes, laughed
and joked with my mother.

As teenagers, my friends and I came to rely on my
mother’s lighthearted good humor as a support against
the insuperable crises that occur with dreary regular-
ity to adolescents. And when I began dating, it was
pure gravy to have a mother whom boys immediately
adopted; and a home where young people’s fun and
craziness were not just tolerated, but enjoyed.

Everyone who knew my mother liked her. Many
people loved her. All have said kind things about her.
But of all these people, I think the one who best de-
scribed my mother was that boy, high in the tree,
long ago. “‘ Wow,” he said softly. And I echo, ‘‘ Wow.”

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THERE’S A MAN IN THE HOUSE

By HARLAN MILLER

My Dream Girl is studying the small fry in
our block to see if any of ’em is old-fashioned
enough to bring us a May basket. So far
some child has hung one on our doorknob
every year. She beams.

I asked several of both sexes at a dinner
party whether morals have changed much
the last few decades. First answer: ““Not so
much; our elders weren’t too pure.’ Last

answer: “Are you kidding:

“Certainly in their studies football players
need at least a C-minus,” admits Peter
Comfort, back from his alma mater’s spring

guards and tackles.”’

All the FM, hi-fi and stereo miracles in music
haven’t helped our family agree on which
tunes we all like. We keep dialing and tak-
ing one another’s records off the machine
and slyly stacking our own favorites.

Our red-haired daughter set her alarm for
3:30 A.M. so her four young ones might see
the astronaut blast off. ““They’ll remember
this,” she says, “the way you remember
Halley’s comet.”

To young men trying to choose a niche in
military service, our town’s senior colonel
issues a warning: The Marine Corps tries to
make you over in its image; the Navy
chooses officers who can be themselves.

My Dream Girl wants a new pair of car-
riage lamps at our front door, more like the
ones her daddy had. ““He used to turn ’em
on when he wanted no intruders for a quiet
evening at home!”

Suddenly overcome by nostalgia for the
Teddy bear she adored in childhood, our
most extravagant matron ordered one made
from the mink of an old coat. “I never waste
a thing”’” she says proudly

What if people you love and admire sud-
denly go gaga over ugly paintings? Must

you forever after pretend like a madman
that a Jackson Pollock is lovelier than a
Seurat or a Pissarro, or a Picasso than
Botticelli’s Venus on the half shell ?

Our town’s Don Juan concedes a woman’s
smile needn’t be ardent to ensnare a man; if
it’s gentle or admiring or tender 1t can enslave
him quicker than the DanceoftheSevenVeils

This is the Age of Anxiety: If we can’t
worry about anything else we worry if, in
the fireplace logs we bring indoors, there
might be a few termites.

Since I helped pick Miss America, I’ve been
invited to pick beauty queens of wool, cow-
girls, potato chips and redheads, among
others. My Dream Girl rules this is the one
justifiable reason for staring at a pretty girl.

“Sex was what drew us together,” admitted
the newlywed husband. “Luckily, we soon
found both of us liked art and books too.”

Obviously, our young enchanted are more
frugal: they eat enough at a cocktail party
so they needn’t (like the fortyish) pursue a
“thick steak” afterward.

My Princess of Sheer Delight thought our
older son wasn’t paying any attention to her
looks until the day he told her exactly
which clothes to wear to a program when he
was in the fourth grade.

... When Enric, at three, manages to collect
twenty bumps and bruises in a day, like a
diary of his activities,

. . . Or our youngest dabbles in campus
politics all afternoon and then studies till
2 AM.,

. And my three women (wife, daughter
and daughter-in-law) appear in their similar
costumes of suntan skirts and sweaters or
gray plaid tweed,

. . . Or Junior advises me patiently to un-
clutter and dejunk our house,

. And Suzi, at five, tells me I’m not as
homely as I was last year,

Then it’s evident I can relax slightly; the
helm is being taken over by more capable
hands.

‘Everything at home 1s fine, dear—not
quite as clean. maybe—but fine, just fine.”

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By CLIFFORD R. ADAMS, Ph.D., Pennsylvania State University, Department of Psychology

MAKING MARRIAGE WORK

CE mR LL LLL

“TI was nearing

PROBL E Mw forty, a success-

fulschoolteacher,

when I was lucky enough to find

OF A a husband. Ben is a widower, a few

years older than I, with a daughter

in college and sons now

SECOND seventeen and fifteen.

We’ve been married two

years, and Ben is a good, kind

WIFE husband. I’m domestic and ma-

ternal and I want to please my

husband and to be liked and loved in this home. But
we have problems, and they aren’t getting easier.

“It’s partly my fault, I know. I don’t suppose any
woman with my background would find it easy to give
up her independence and become a full-time home-
maker. I admit I’m a particular housekeeper. I get
impatient and lose my temper when my requests or
suggestions to the boys are ignored, and I set high
standards of responsibility for them. I set an ample
table, provide snacks, and try to keep an orderly house.
Shouldn’t they co-operate ?

“The boys, and Ben too, say I’m too talkative. The
boys say I labor a point if I say more than two sen-
tences, and Ben buries himself in the paper the minute
he gets home. Dinner is usually a pleasant interlude,
with the boys taking lively part in any discussion, but
afterward my husband plants himself in the living
room with a book, and he doesn’t like to be inter-
rupted. I like to talk, after being alone all day. I need
some solitude, and I get up an hour early to read.
Evenings I like to discuss the affairs of the day and
the ideas I’ve picked up through reading.

“Who is right? Do many husbands complain of
their wives’ talking too much? How can a husband and
wife have intellectual companionship without talking ?

How can we teach the boys to be more responsible and
less self-centered? Do I expect too much? I want a
happy home, not one full of bickering and conflict.”
The transition from the independence of a successful
professional woman to the role of full-time homemaker,
catering to others, is seldom easy. And when the wife
is an older single woman, marrying a man who has
been married before, the challenge is even greater,
especially if she steps into a ‘‘ready-made”’ family. But
she must remember that she is the newcomer. She
must adjust not only her way of life, but also her atti-
tudes and outlook, even to some extent her personality.
Though this wife is unquestionably conscientious
and sincere, the fact is that she probably does expect
too much, of herself as well as her family. Successful
as a teacher, she expected to function equally capably
as wife and mother—a role for which she had no previ-
ous training or experience. And she expects the family
to conform to her habits and preferred routine and way
of thinking, abandoning their established customs.
Though these comments are directed to her, perhaps
other second wives will find them illuminating:
Acceptance. Family solidarity should be the im-
mediate concern of any second wife, far outweighing
questions of deportment, household mechanics, or even
her own authority. And this feeling of unity can never
be achieved until she accepts the family as they are
now, despite what she considers their faults, for until
she does they will not accept her. She cannot expect
to reform her husband or his family. The most she
should expect is that they will gradually modify their
habits, behavior and attitudes in accordance with her
ideas, and in this process she should take the lead by
discarding her ideas of what family life should be like
and adapting herself to this family’s life as it is.
Standards. Quite possibly her standards for the boys
are too rigid and too high.

Jealousy and possessiveness. Very often a second
wife is unconsciously jealous of her husband’s relation-
ship with his children, and she seeks to maintain her
position in the household by demanding their respect
and obedience. But her authority will be effective only
when she has earned and won the family’s acceptance
and affection. The woman who is beset by jealousy of
the first wife’s memory (a common problem, though
not mentioned by this wife) had best remind herself
that her husband chose her to be his wife now.

Compromise is essential to a harmonious relationship
between husband and wife, parents and children. The
second wife must remember that she is indeed the
newcomer, and that very often she must be the one to
give in. Nagging, impatience and outbursts of temper
do not pave the way for effective compromise. In
dealing with adolescent boys, as this wife must, the
adults’ emotional control is of utmost importance.

Communication must be effective if relationships are
to be harmonious and problems are to be solved. The
boys do not understand their stepmother, nor does she
understand them. Nothing in her letter indicates any
personal interest in them beyond providing food and
seeing that they perform their assigned tasks. Is she as
interested in their thoughts, feelings, ideas as she
expects them—and her husband—to be in hers? Her
husband and the boys agree that she is too talkative.
Could it be that her idea of conversation is to do all the
talking, and that the subjects she discusses are of
interest to her, but not to them?

Companionship is essential to happiness in marriage,
but it takes many forms, and is not dependent on in-
tellectual discussion of major issues. When acceptance
is established and effective communication achieved, a
companionable atmosphere is sure to follow. Perhaps
this husband thinks of his reading as “companionable
silence.”” Does the wife recognize the term?

THE LONELY GIRL
IN THE BIG CITY

“When I graduated from college a year ago, I
couldn’t wait to get to the big city, but loneliness is
killing me. My job in a big insurance company is
interesting but not stimulating, and I live alone in a
one-room apartment. Workdays are all alike—up at
seven, at work by nine, home at six. Weekends are
worse. Saturdays I clean the apartment, shop, read
and watch television. Sundays I sleep late, write a few
letters, read and maybe go to a movie. I’m an only
child, and have always been very close to my parents.
I visit them once a month, but this is the only break
in my dull, drab routine. I’m 23, and I want to enjoy
life, to have some dates, and to have somebody to talk
to. I don’t want to go back to the small town where I
grew up, but what can a lonely girl in a city do?”

Marilyn came in a couple of weeks later for an inter-
view. Though personable, she was rather colorless in
appearance: a serious expression seldom relieved by a
smile, little makeup, and clothing so plain as to seem
severe. Her manner was reserved, and though she an-
swered questions politely, she seldom initiated a sub-
ject, or made any attempt to carry on a conversation.
As an only child, she was accustomed to privacy. In

college she lived alone, devoting herself to her studies
and part-time library work, so she had many acquaint-
ances but few real friends and very few dates.

Lacking in personal attraction and in social skills,
it’s likely that Marilyn would be lonely in almost any
environment, though she originally saw her problem as
“big-city loneliness.’

But in a second interview, Marilyn produced some
ideas for resolving problem. Quite properly, her
program began with self-improvement

Appearance. She had already visited a beauty parlor,
and emerged with a more becoming hair style, and a

new skill in the use of cosmetics. She had also bought
new clothes and accessories to enliven her rather prim
wardrobe. Already she looked far more approachable.

Social skills. An indifferent dancer, she had signed
up for dancing lessons (which would be enjoyable in
themselves). She had brushed up on her bridge game
by reading a couple of books, and planned to volunteer
to fill in when one of the groups at the office needed a
fourth for their lunch-hour game. A serious reader, she
decided that she would make a deliberate effort to read
sports news, current light fiction, and other material
which would give her something to talk about to
people her own age.

The next step was for Marilyn to broaden her op-
portunities to meet people and make friends. As a
beginning, she decided to ask some of the girls at the
office to dinner at her apartment, ‘‘one at a time, so
we can really get acquainted.”’ In addition, she decided
on these steps:

She will join the YWCA. Though ‘not much of an
athlete,” she does enjoy swimming.

She will join a church. Marilyn had grown up in a
religious home, but had lacked the initiative to join
a strange church in a strange city.

She will enroll in a night course ina field that interests
her, in one of the two colleges in her city. (Some form
of adult education is available in almost every city.)

In addition, she or any lonely person might find new
zest in living by finding and cultivating a hobby—
whether it be bowling, bird watching, antique collect-
ing or photography.

Note that each of the new activities Marilyn is
undertaking is worthwhile in itself. They will surely
make her life less “‘dull and drab’’ whether or not she
makes new friends. But since all these activities in-
volve other people, she is almost certain to attract new
friends as well, especially since she began her program
by improving herself.

ASK YOURSELF:

Can I Be More Attractive?

Every woman, single or married, wants to be at-
tractive. But her personal charm depends even more
on the attributes of her personality than on physical
beauty. It is their sum total that constitutes her at-
tractiveness. If you feel that you want to be more
attractive, careful consideration of the suggestions
below may give you some ideas of where to begin.

Would it Help if I:

. Lost (or gained) a few pounds?

. Improved my posture, walked more gracefully ?
. Saw a dermatologist about my skin?

. Planned for more rest and sleep?

. Cultivated a more pleasing voice?

. Took better care of my health?

. Paid more attention to personal grooming ?
. Dyed my hair or changed its styling ?

. Advised with a specialist on cosmetics?

10. Learned to dance or play bridge?

11. Became more tolerant and less aggressive?
12. Showed greater appreciation of my friends?
13. Read more and could talk more freely ?

14, Praised more, and criticized less? .

mito te OMN

SOND AY

Minimizing any physical defects and improving
your general appearance should be your first concern,
since anything that increases your self-confidence is
constructive. But your ability to accept and under-
stand your associates, to adapt to them and win their
approval and liking, is the best measure of your
attractiveness.

QUESTION Do You Agree?
“Aren’t men more fickle than women?”

No. Twice as many women as men break up a court-
ship because of a new romantic interest.

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cosmetics

RADIO CITY. NEW YORK

AUGUST 7

‘Going to the moon, or just getting back?” The friendly man in
the hospital elevator smiled at my dressings, the shape of a space
helmet and much bigger than a breadbox.

“Face lift,’’ I purred contentedly, and peeked at him through
swollen black eyes, lipstick contrasting weirdly against a back-
ground of puffy, glorious Technicolor.

“Wow!” He was obviously shaken. Like others who passed
me in the hospital corridors, he had assumed some horrible acci-

with me, I would cheerfully have told him the details, for I
was already keeping a diary of the whole affair. Now the diary

is done. It covers six weeks, from the beginning to the end of
my venture into the unknown, and it leaves out none of the hard
parts. But it has something not every diary is lucky enough to
have: a deliriously happy ending.

But I’d better begin by saying that it took three years of
planning before the diary could even start.

First, I was not the plastic surgeons’ preferred patient—a
celebrity who needed their help for real economic reasons. I was a
small-town, Midwestern housewife who was terribly concerned
over her appearance. Three years ago my face had deteriorated
rapidly after several years of one serious illness after another. I
was back on my feet, I had the figure, walk and vitality of a
woman in her twenties. But only a skilled plastic surgeon could
give me back my face. Why, I asked myself, should a firm face
and smooth neck be the exclusive prerogatives of ‘‘past 45”
celebrities? If they could rebuild their morale with restorative
surgery, so could I!

For three years I gathered information—with my husband’s
good-humored approval—writing letters, asking for interviews,
dragging information from reluctant doctors, noncommittal medi-
cal societies and people I knew living near medical centers. The fact
that I was such an ordinary person startled bits of information out
of most contacts—all meant to be discouraging. But they added to
my knowledge of the subject, its procedures, risks and benefits.

For three years I had earned and saved money from the oddest
assortment of jobs a housewife ever tackled while keeping the home
front picked up and held together. I boarded pets, played the organ
for funerals, raised puppies, became a vacation-time receptionist,
pounded a typewriter, altered clothes, sold household accumulations
I used to give away, and stashed into the bank every gift of money
I received—along with the dimes and quarters I won on the golf
course and at the bridge table.

At the end of the three years I had saved $1500 (my actual med-
ical expenses turned out to be $1275). A lot of money, but not out of
reach for anyone who can budget a trip to Europe or a good fur

dent. It’s too bad he bolted off at the next floor. If he’d stuck (i

coat. Any really determined woman can do it.

I also knew I had the best surgeon I could have found. He lived
in if eral hundred miles from home, and our preliminary ar-
Y% vere made by letter. Believe me, I tried to make all my
lett as explicit and intelligent as possible. I had heard that
seven « of t ( ts for cosmetic surgery are turned down.
Co! u

feons try to avoid any possible accusation

of operating unnecessarily. They also are eager to avoid neurotics
who hope a rejuvenated face will solve far deeper problems.

I had told him I used to earn my living modeling and in sales-
work, where a nice appearance is essential. But I also had been
honest about my real reasons. I knew all the risks I was facing.
They are the risks of any major surgery—hemorrhage, pro-
longed anesthesia, shock, infection, healing complications, and
sensitivities that had plagued me when I was ill in the past. I

didn’t care. I was convinced, irrevocably, that the work was

worth having done. I was so heartsick at the sight of my sag-
ging jawline, drooping mouth and flabby throat that I’d
take the odds and go for broke.

DAY BEFORE SURGERY. Arrived bag and baggage in the city this

afternoon, and by 2:30 was in my doctor’s large, impressive office

for the first time.

I was ushered quickly into the doctor’s presence, my heart
skipping beats along the way. His first remark was, ‘‘“You look
ql pretty sharp to want this done.”’ An opening gambit, possibly, to
see if I’d chicken out at the last minute. I stopped smiling and
lowered my chin, saying, ‘“‘Look at this.”” He could see the
pouches on my jaw, the folds of skin beneath my chin, the as-

sorted sags and deep lines that no makeup could cover.

“Oh, oh.”’ He reached out and felt the slackness of the skin.
“‘Have you lost weight lately?’ No, I hadn’t. In fact, I had
never weighed so much in my life by ten pounds, having always
been on the skinny side of normal.

He nodded. ‘‘You do need help—and we can help you.” I
was so afraid he would turn me down at the last minute—but
this meant I had won.

Next, photographs were taken of my face, front and side, for the
doctor’s files. They should look magnificently haggard, for I was
tired from the excitement of saying good-bye at home and making
the trip, and harsh studio lighting was used. However, the doctor
says I won’t be able to have copies. These pictures aren’t for fun!

Every top-flight plastic surgeon has an artist on his staff, for the
end result must be not only surgically fine but artistically balanced.
The artist was now called in. I sat facing a mirror as she lifted here
and there, well inside the hairline, and he sat making notes. They
decided most of the repair work (surgically and brutally referred to
as “reduction of deformity of face’’) needed to be done from low
behind the jaw and up, pulling out perhaps two inches of excess
neck skin and flattening pouches on each side of the chin to restore
the original facial contours. Some pull at the temple would partially
tighten skin under eyes. No work would be done on slightly folded
eyelids, which calls for a separate operation. Frown lines would be
only slightly relieved (a separate operation in eyebrows to smooth
out those completely). I won’t be having any ‘‘separate operations,”’
but will wind up with a smooth neck and jawline and no more
droopy mouth with deep lines above and below. The plans suited
me perfectly. I didn’t want too youthful a mask at my age. What
lines of character and intelligence I have around my eyes and fore-
head might better be left there to give me an aura of maturity to

fit my responsibilities. And from now on I CONTINUED ON PAGE 30

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 28

would try to smile more, look happy, and
wear gummed-paper patches on the frown at
night. .

By 5 p.m. I was established here, in my inex-
pensive private room in the hospital, small,
but adequately equipped with bath. The nurs-
ing staff welcomed me, the evening meal was
excellent. A young surgeon, Doctor K., as-
sistant to the operating surgeon, called and
announced he would be seeing me twice a day
throughout my stay. He listened attentively to
my rundown of allergies, high drug tolerances
and previous surgical history. And, thank
heavens, he said I was to have a general
anesthetic instead of a local, which I under-
stood was often used.

He has gone now. The floor supervisor just
brought me a bar of medicated soap with
which to shampoo my hair. Also a small glass
of red liquid soap with which to scrub my face
for five minutes. It stings! My face feels on
fire now. I am to repeat the burning facial in
the morning.

Later. It’s past midnight. The sedative they
gave me isn’t working. Too excited about to-
morrow, I suppose. For a large hospital, this
is one of the quietest. Have now had three
grains of a sedative, and fluids have been
withdrawn until after surgery. A dehydrating
drug will be added to my morning hypo to
cut down body fluids. I'll sure be dry when I
get back to my room tomorrow... .

It’s now 5 A.M., plus two more capsules.
Tolerance of sedatives is a wonderful thing at
a cocktail party, but would prefer going to
surgery half asleep like everyone else. Am
terribly thirsty already and not even tired.
Can hardly wait till 8 o’clock when this show
gets on the road....

7 a.m. Am now in a green gown, have
scrubbed (and burned) my face again, have
no breakfast to look forward to, and a big
hypo due any minute. My, it was a long night!
EVENING OF SURGERY

So it’s over! Rolled off to surgery wild with
excitement. Naturally the preoperative hypo
didn’t work either (except for the drying
atropine). Felt cotton-mouthed, but wide
awake. Dr. K. appeared and chatted a bit,
then walked beside the cart into the glittering,
brilliantly lighted surgical amphitheater. Some-
one said, “Start the anesthetic,’ and although
I protested, wanting to greet the surgeon and
wish him luck, that was all. I have no recollec-
tion of receiving any anesthetic.

The operation lasted three and a half hours
till 11:30. I roused in the recovery room about
2:30. At first I was conscious only of an ex-
treme pain in my right shoulder, and then I
gradually discovered they were transfusing me
with whole blood in my arm. It seems I had left
the operating room with rapidly falling blood
pressure, suggestive of shock, so the transfu-
sion had been ordered along with oxygen.

Left the recovery room about 5 P.M. Was
perishing of thirst, although occasionally a
small piece of ice had been dropped into my
mouth during the afternoon. Drank a whole
pitcherful of water as soon as I got back to my
room.

My face is very swollen and there is a dull
pain in my cheekbones and the cords at the
back of my neck. In fact, my whole head aches
but just on the outside. Nothing as bad as the
usual pounding tension headaches of our dizzy
civilization. My dressings look as if I'd been
chosen to be the first astronaut. There is a
scarlet tuft of hair sticking out of the top of
the helmet. Would guess I faintly resemble one
of those weird animals in a Doctor Seuss book.
Apparently it is a bloody operation, as Doctor
K. says the first pint of blood they gave me
undoubtedly just replaced what I'd lost. The
dressings are so heavy over my ears I can
barely hear. Find that by lying on my little
transistor radio I can catch the news.

Dinner arrived in the form of a liquid-diet
tray. I was starved, felt fine, and with no
dressings over my face figured I could eat
solid food. Asked for a general diet, ‘‘ate” the
liquid while waiting, and pretty soon here
came a lovely big dinner. It wasn’t the least bit
painful to chew or swallow.

SECOND DAY, 5 A.M.

Can’t sleep. In abdominal surgery you can

lie on your back, but when your head is in-

volved there’s no place to put it but up—so
who can sleep? Besides, I had a five-hour ses-
sion with intravenous solution till midnight,
and my arms still ache. Just checked what lit-
tle face shows. My eyes are turning black and
my face is so swollen it looks as if I’ve gained
80 pounds. Doctor K. tells me my scalp was
opened up from back neck cords to temple,
inside of hairline except for around the ears.
Ears (top and bottom) were sewn back over in-
cision so no facial scars will show. The muscle
layer was pulled back and tightened, then skin
tightened over muscle base and excess tissue
removed. How about that!

SECOND DAY, NOON

Dressings were changed this morning. They
are very bulky and over whole head, under
chin and around neck. On the incisions strips
of medication-soaked gauze were first gently
laid. Large heaps of cotton waste were next
piled over each ear as pressure protection, then
yards and yards of gauze and tape wrapped
over all. Doctor K. kept saying, “Perfect .. .
perfect,”’ all the time he fussed with me. Both
eyes are now black and blue. Head is sore but
not throbbing. Am too keyed up yet to relax
or sleep. Hate to miss any of the excitement
as the skin changes color. Also, can’t help ad-
miring the pretty straight corners of my
formerly drooping mouth. Right back up
where they used to be! Can’t tell anything
more as yet. Feel fine and strong from the
shoulders down.

Wrote letters and went to nurses’ station to
ask directions to the mailbox. They looked
aghast, and one said, “You can’t go down
there. You were just in the recovery room yes-
terday!”’ One of them finally came with me—
presumably to pick up the pieces when I gave
out. But I made it easily both ways.

Have had two long-distance calls that I
couldn’t accept because I couldn’t hear
through the dressings. But I’m able to read,
thanks to my oculist at home who rigged up
old glasses with a very short pair of bows end-
ing in hooks. By slipping elastic over the
hooks, I can string the whole works across
the back of the dressings. Doctor K. thinks it
quite an ingenious arrangement. Good thing I
checked on the size of this helmet or I'd be
half blind for a month, with all this bulk now,
and tender incisions later.

Am drinking gallons of water and still feel
dehydrated. Discovered that by twisting two
pieces of cleansing tissue on the bias and
stuffing the ends in the top of my helmet I look
like Bugs Bunny.

THIRD DAY

I can hardly see now, what with a big mouse
over and under each eye. My face begins to be
made of rainbows of color—magenta, char-
treuse, dark green, violet, lavender. My neck
is now purple to the shoulders. Have a head-
ache, but just on the outside and purely super-

ficial. Feel calmer and more relaxed, although
pulse is still rapid. (I am a sneaky patient—I
check my own pulse and temperature when
the thermometers are passed out.)

Doctor K. says one of their patients, done
six weeks ago, came in to be photographed
today looking very glamorous. She is eighty-
five years old! Has this doneroutinely. Imagine,
being able to look nice all these years. That’s
for me! Better start looking for more odd jobs
when I get home so I can afford the next one.

FOURTH DAY

Just took another look at this “beautiful
job,” as Doctor K. calls it. Eyes are even worse
than yesterday. Looks as though I'd been
thrown through a windshield. I have no depth
perception and no peripheral vision. Head-
ache isn’t so bad, and I need aspirin only oc-
casionally. Neck deeper purple but sore only
to touch. Cheeks are now pale green, but
swelling is starting to decrease.

I suppose this adventure needs strong mo-
tivation—like learning to wear contact lenses.
It probably would be most unpleasant if you
were doing it purely because you had to. But
when it is one of the most important things in
your life, it is tremendously exciting—and
downright hilarious when you look in the
mirror. Better-looking varmints crawl out from
under boards any day.

My eyes are now just slits, and my face ev-
ery color in the paint box. Feel good, but tire
easily. Think I’m doing fine, but the patient is
always the last to know. Can hardly wait for
the final result, and that will be several weeks.

Of course everyone is most curious as to
what happened as I bounce around the corri-
dors attired in my friends’ prettiest gowns and
robes (on loan), looking chic from the shoul-
ders down.

No point in renting a TV set yet. I can’t see
well enough, and with eight-inch-thick dress-
ings over ears, can’t hear well either. The
night nurses are very sweet about inviting me
to coffee (decaffeinated) in their little kitchen
when I roam past looking for diversion. In our
present relationship, the nurses are such good
friends. Would they recognize me if I came
back with my new face?

I am getting a partial memory block from
the sedatives and tranquilizers that don’t work
otherwise; have already forgotten half the
questions I asked the doctor today. He says
my pulse is rapid because I’m so excited. Ac-
cording to the laboratory, my blood picture is
back to normal, thanks to the transfusion.
The bruises will last two to three weeks only.
They are caused by capillary seepage after the
skin was shifted on the muscle base. He
doesn’t approve of using the preparation that
fades bruises quickly. Only a one-inch strip of
hair was shaved off inside the hairline, so re-
styling should easily take care of my hair till
it grows in again.

“She must have had quite a time!”

LADIES' HOME JOUR

Think the period I am in now is the harde
part of a face lift. The operation doesn’t hu
but a lukewarm patient might flip about ne
upon looking in a mirror. As for me, I
stand looking weird for three weeks rath
than spend years painting facial draperies
stead of putting on make-up. Id rather have
new face than a mink stole which would co
more and wear out quicker.

FIFTH DAY

Tired and limp. Lack of sleep is beginning
tell. Maybe I stay awake all night so I won
miss the doctor’s morning call. He’s the on
visitor I have, and he is certainly somet
nice to look forward to. He’s so good abot
answering my questions. I now make out aI}
during the day and read them off to him se
won't forget all the things I want to know.

Believe I’m not as swollen or as black-&
as yesterday. Pulse is still rapid, but tempe
ture is normal, so effects of shock are weari
off. I can read better today and am able tor
my eyes. Aspirin is easily controlling what I
tle discomfort I have from sore head. With
couple of naps under my cap today I feel be
ter. My dressings are so thick I must look d
rectly at the person talking to catch everythin
said. Stitches ache sometimes—head itch
sometimes. |

Little nun came up from the kitchen
thank me for the note I put on my tray con
plimenting the cooks. From her profou
gratitude, I gather she’s had more complain
than cheers in her dietetic career.

SIXTH DAY
Had another boring, sleepless night and a
not even tired. I'd give anything for eig
hours of real sleep.
It took over an hour to change the dressin
today. Doctor K. took out 90 stitches (ble
silk) and said it was only a starter on stit
removal. It hurt—especially around my ea
All doctors insist that stitch removal doest
hurt—just stings. Well, it hurts, though not
much as abdominal or chest stitches.
He says my ears have been shortened oy
a centimeter. It seems they sort of eased t
lower third into place, like putting in a slee
when you make a dress. My ear lobes @
numb and they don’t seem as big as befo
Wonder if I can still wear my big gobby ea
rings. He says my ears were nine centimete
long—much too long. I didn’t know that.
did know they stuck out a little. “No more
he says. What a bonus!
My neck is now very sore, can’t turn n
head. Still don’t look human, and the dres
ings are as thick as ever. Wonder when I cg
have a shampoo.
Have been trying to read, but nothing is:
grossing enough. I showed the nurses |
five-year-old portraits I brought for the
geon to see. They are having great fun tryil
to decide what I'll look like next. Impossi
to guess yet.
SEVENTH DAY
Great purple patches have appeared at
corners of my mouth and are spreading acr
my cheeks. Eyes are better, the swelling dot
a little. Feel listless and tired. Napped aga
so must be unwinding. Doctor K. reassut
on final results. He wants to know most o
why I can’t sleep. Well, when you wait tht
years to go to Disneyland, you don’t ¢
through any of the rides, is all I could
him.
EIGHTH DAY
Slept over three hours last night! Am
lounge clothes today. Eyes continue to-
prove, but cheeks and neck still getting pl
pler. Can’t get over how painless this”
been. It’s a good thing too. This being elec
surgery, you ask for no sympathy and
none. Glad there’s so little to complain ab

NINTH DAY
Almost changed my mind about the whi
thing being so easy this morning. Dress
change was an ordeal. Fluid under incisi
had to be pressed out on back of neck. Di
sleep again last night. Pressure was
dressings too tight on throat unless I sat
straight. Got TV set today, and can see a
quately. Stayed quietly on the bed most of
day, being amused and calm. Am achy @

tired, and my scalp itches. |

CONTINUED ON PAGES

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 30

TENTH DAY
Slept some last night and feel marvelous to-

day. Have gained two pounds on this excellent
food. Rainbow colors are nearly faded from
eyes and all swelling is gone from eyelids.
Could have gone home today if I lived nearby.
Lower half of face still has that five-o’clock
shadow. Head itches badly now under these
hot, heavy dressings. Hope they decrease in
size soon.

ELEVENTH DAY

Am starting on an antibiotic preparatory to
leaving the hospital. Will continue it for a
week. Was to leave at noon, but upon remov-
ing dressings this morning there were two large
pockets of fluid on my neck. Must now go
down to the doctor’s office for the surgeon to
see and, perhaps, aspirate. Don’t think I'll re-
lease my room. If they open these bulges V’ll
want to come back here with lots of help stand-
ing by. Also, can’t have a shampoo for several
days yet. How will I stand it? Must stay in
town ten days after leaving the hospital for
dressings and care.

Afternoon. It was even worse than I an-
ticipated. They opened the pockets of fluid
on my neck. I almost cried right there, took a
cab back to the hospital, dragged up to my
room and burst into tears. Imagine, the worst
day of all is the eleventh. And the only time
I’ve really been hurt. But with a pain pill and
all kinds of sympathy and fussing over from
the staff I dropped off to sleep and now feel re-
cuperated. One motherly nurse even kissed
my purple, tear-stained face, and someone’s
special from down the hall came in and held
my hand. What sweet people!

Evening. Head hurting badly again. Got
another pain pill. Still shaken from the “un-
fortunate” afternoon. But the surgeon did say
that though it was too bad, and the swelling
would take a lot longer to go down, this has
thickened the muscles and the repair work
will hold up a lot longer, so it may be worth it.

TWELFTH DAY

Incisions hurt all night, so stayed up and vis-
ited with the night aides and nurses. It felt like
marbles bandaged tight against tender spots.
But Doctor K. wasn’t too worried, so pains
must have been in acceptable places. Maybe
over deep sutures.

Feel good again, and am being dismissed at
noon. The first phase is over!
THIRTEENTH DAY

Itching scalp nearly intolerable. Tear holes
in the dressings and pour rubbing alcohol on
the worst spots. Am taking lots of aspirin to
try to numb scalp areas. Tomorrow stitches
come out, and shampoo maybe.
FOURTEENTH DAY

No shampoo! How could they! Have to
wait three more days because about 100
stitches came out this morning. Doctor K.
says nearly two hours of the operation was
sewing time. At least my dressings have been
reduced to light weight over ears, and there is
a bare patch in back where I can scratch. He
rubbed alcohol all over my scalp with a gauze
sponge. Felt wonderful! The secretary made
an appointment with a medical beauty oper-
ator for a shampoo and restyling three days
hence.
FIFTEENTH DAY

How can I ever wait two more days to wash
my hair? Called the doctor’s office to see if I
could remove dressings and wash it myself.
Secretary sounded shocked and said ‘‘No.” So
I will live on tranquilizers and aspirin for
forty-eight hours more. Sleeping fine at last
with this lightweight bandage. Bruises are
paler and smaller, swollen look slight. Tried
to go shopping, but walking four blocks had
me pretty shaky. Besides, my bandages scare
too many people on the street.
SIXTEENTH DAY

Oooh—ee ! This was the great day! Went to
the doctor’s office to have the dressings taken
off, and could feel the whole office staff quiv-
ering with excitement. Just like me. Off they
came! The suspense was terrific, but I was
whisked away to be shampooed, restyled and
carefully made up with a paste foundation on

jawline is certainly visible. They say that ir

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

smooth, youthful throat and happy-lookin
mouth. All the sag and droop is gone. And ip.
dividuality of expression is intact, because o
untouched eyes and forehead. Just what |
wanted! This is a day for walking on air; I car
hardly look away from the mirror. Everybod
galloped in to cheer the result, and I must sa’
the surgeon looked as pleased as anybod'
Except me.

Was thoroughly photographed for the doc
tor’s files, and was asked to send more picture!
when all swelling had disappeared. Am still 4
bit mumpy-looking between ear and cheek
Neck is also thick and discolored, but slee'

another month I’ll be even happier with thi
results.

At the hospital the nurses had said t
could hardly wait till the dressings came Of
They could hardly wait! It seems they ra
get to see the finished product, and don’t re¢
ognize the bruised and bandaged celebritie
they have with them. Most people use an as

MEXICO

(San Miguel de Allende)
By JAMES HEARST

Fresh from the slow hills of lowa

milky with corn, | stand aghast

where sharp-toothed mountains
tear at the sky.

The feathers of Montezuma
shadow

the cactus, the thin trails, the
lonely cross,

a pink stone church praises God

from a fold in the hills, but the
dry light

prods my eye with burro and
vulture

lest | blind myself with the flowers’
radiance.

Blue grace pours from heaven
on proud heads and kind shoulders”
turned away from stone altars
as a smile shines in the doorway
and love welcomes you in.

sumed name for this operation, and I
often asked who I really was.

So out to the hospital I went, and they didn}
recognize me till I howled, ““Don’t you kno
me anymore?” They simply couldn’t belies
it. One little aide from the night staff said}
“Why, you’re one of my best friends, and
wouldn’t have known you!” The coffeepoy
was put on, word was sent to the other win
and with one or two at a time coming in fo.
quick break, we had an impromptu farewel|
party. My letter of appreciation to the supery-
visor had been posted by someone on thi
kitchen wall—and now they, too, want al
“after” picture. Finally pulled myself awa)
from a wonderful hospital and staff and pa
dled off into the sunset.

EIGHTEENTH DAY

Find that ears and large areas in front 0)
ears are completely numb. The doctor says thi
nerves will regenerate in time. Wonderful W
sleep without dressings and with a clean sca
Now only one bruise, pale but glimmering, Bi

low right eye mars the new landscape.

TWENTIETH DAY

Flew South today to wait out deflation a
the home of generous friends. No one S$
much as stared on the plane, although I di
wear dark glasses. Will rest and get acquainte
with myself down here for a few weeks ti
spring arrives up North. :

New hair is starting to come in and prickle
Am a bit stiff-necked as yet, otherwise loc
and feel nearly well. This is like having a bab

.and whatever your

the bruises. Who minds any deal in a hospital when y

Then I got my first heart-stopping look.

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BY GOODRICH C. SCHAUFFLER, M. D.

‘You saved my mother’s life, Doctor, when
she got a pelvic infection just after I was
born. But she never had another baby. I hope
I won't become sterile too!”

The doctor glanced a second time at
Mrs. Whitaker’s home address, a small
community about a hundred miles away.
Mrs. Whitaker, in her middle twenties,
pleasant and capable-looking, said, as
if reading his thoughts, ‘““You are quite
famous at home, Doctor. You saved my
mother’s life twenty-five years ago.”

“Indeed? I remember some connection
with your town, though exactly what
After all, twenty-five years is a long time!”

““Mother—her name is Mrs. Elmer John-
son—got desperately sick not long after I
was born,” Mrs. Whitaker explained.
“Everybody thought she was going to die;
then you were called in and pulled her
through. I have heard the story many
times. How you operated on her right on
our kitchen table, just like the old horse-
and-buggy days.”

“That brings it all back!” the doctor
exclaimed. ‘““You were born in a crude, un-
sanitary place called a maternity home,
but without benefit of medical staff. The
local doctor didn’t even get there. Your
mother had a rather deep obstetrical tear.
It would not have been too serious in itself,
but around the third or fourth day -her
temperature shot way up; soon she was
desperately ill. She had incurred about the
worst infection that can follow childbirth,
what we call ‘pelvic peritonitis,’ caused by
one of the most virulent types of bacteria,
the hemolyticeor ‘blood-destroying’ strep-
tococcus. It begins in the uterus and
spreads rapidly to the tubes, then to all the
pelvic organs. In the old days, in many
cases it would spread to other parts of the
body through the bloodstream. It was a
principal cause of the high maternal-death
rate we used to have before the need for
strict asepsis in childbirth was recognized.

“By the time I was called in, your
mother was much too sick to be moved to
a city hospital. I wouldn’t have returned
. her to the maternity home for anything.
That was the reason for the rather melo-
dramatic kitchen-table operation. For-
tunately, she was healthy and strong—
plucky too. Her body had walled off the
infection, localizing it in the pelvis in a
massive abscess. I drained the abscess by
making a small vaginal incision called a
_ colpotomy. After that, she got better as if
by magie.”’

“And she’s still going strong! She sent
you her regards. That maternity home was

pretty dreadful, Doctor. It was finally
closed after several mothers had died of
infections they got there. We have a nice
new hospital now. I guess there won’t be
any more danger of pelvic infections.”’

“T am glad to hear of the new hospital,
Mrs. Whitaker. But I’m afraid we haven’t
done away entirely with pelvic infections,
even in our big city hospitals. We have
much better ways of dealing with them
when they occur, and in this country,
today, they are seldom a cause of death
following childbirth. Just the same, we
have to be on our toes constantly. And in
spite of all our precautions—the meticu-
lous scrubbing and other antiseptic rou-
tines, the isolation of every case of actual
or suspected infection—we still have them
with us.

“True, oftentimes they follow sponta-
neous abortion or miscarriage, suffered by a
woman in her own home. And after illegal
abortions, performed under dangerous con-
ditions, they are far too frequent. But
pelvic infections can occur even under the
best circumstances.”

“You said, though, that you have better
ways of dealing with them now.”

“We certainly do. But it’s an interesting
sidelight that the modern tendency to use
chemotherapy at the first suspicion of
trouble sometimes camouflages these par-
ticular infections. It improves the condi-
tion sufficiently to give the impression of
cure, when actually the infection is only
dormant and may flare up again, or remain
as a chronic condition. Hence pelvic in-
fections are a frequent cause of later
sterility, because of tubes that have been
sealed off. Or they cause what we call
morbidity—painful, sensitive pelvic or-
gans, troublesome menstrual periods, dif-
ficult and painful marital relations. A good
many women go on for years with ills of
that kind, the result of an infection follow-
ing normal childbirth, miscarriage or abor-
tion, which didn’t seem to amount to very
much at the time.

“Worst of all are the infections which
follow illegal abortions, induced by instru-
ments. They may seem trivial, too, but
they can damage the tubes so severely
these become permanently useless. I wish
that women who contemplate illegal abor-
tions could know what they may be letting
themselves in for. But I must apologize,
Mrs. Whitaker. Recalling your mother’s
experience has taken us rather far afield. I
see by your card that you have been having
some trouble yourself.”’

“Yes. It’s odd that you should have
mentioned spontaneous abortion, because

TELL
ME
DOCTOR

my doctor at home thought I had one,
about three months ago. It was my first
pregnancy. A few days afterward I began
to have nagging little pains in my lower
abdomen. Ever since, there has been a
rather slow, continuous ache in that area,
and tenderness, really serious discomfort,
on and off. I think I may have a little fever
occasionally. I have been able to do my
housework, but I am in pain a good deal of
the time.”

“Had you noticed any of these symp-
toms prior to the pregnancy ?”

‘No. My periods have always been reg-
ular. I haven’t really known what it was
to be sick.”

“Did you consult your own doctor about
this recent discomfort 2”

“Yes. I went to him again last week. He
examined me, but said there were so many
possibilities he couldn’t make up his mind
what treatment to use. Let me see if I can
remember them all. He thought I had a
small cyst on the right ovary. But he said

there was a slight possibility that a preg-.

nancy had started in the tube. He also
mentioned endometriosis. Oh, yes, he said
something about appendicitis. I have never
had my appendix removed.”’

“Do the pain and tenderness you imen-
tion seem to be on one side? I noticed you
put your hand to your right side when you
spoke of the pain in the lower part of your
abdomen.”’

“That’s right, Doctor. It definitely seems
worse now on the right side.”’

“IT see. It’s quite true that a small
ovarian cyst, especially one that is on a
stem, or pedicle, can make trouble. Hard
straining, a quick jolt, or occasionally in-
tercourse, can give it a twist which will
impede or even shut off circulation. Or it
may get infected.

“Tt isn’t always easy to distinguish be-
tween the pain and tenderness of appendi-
citis and that caused by an abnormal
condition in the right ovary or tube. How-
ever, appendicitis is usually accompanied
by symptoms you haven’t reported—
nausea, constipation or diarrhea, and the
like. A test called the sedimentation rate
will tell us more about that. The idea of a
tubal pregnancy seems pretty unlikely, but
a frog test would help us decide.”’

“Dr. Gross mentioned those things. But
he also said the situation was so cloudy
that he would rather I went to a specialist
for diagnosis.”

The doctor buzzed the intercom. “Mrs.
Whitaker is ready for examination, Mary
Ann. Please get the routine laboratory
tests going

CONTINUED ON PAGE 116 »

Ee i - _— oi PAGS COO

DR. SPOCK TALKS WITH MOTHERS

> “I would tell a daughter flatly
" never to leta boy go a step beyond
what seems right to her. There
are all kinds of boys. Her need is
not to please a lot of them, but to

find the few whom she can really

be fond of.”

The commonest protest of a girl to her mother is
that she is compelled to let boys take liberties be-
yond what she would like because otherwise she
will be hopelessly unpopular and isolated. Part of
this objection comes from the fact that her own
instinets, curiosity, doubts about her attractive-
ness are naturally urging her to experiment and
she would feel more comfortable if her mother
would agree that she has to give in. At the same
time, the self-respecting and idealistic part of her
personality really wants the backing of her moth-
er’s wisdom, even if she argues indignantly against
her advice. I would tell a daughter flatly never to
let a boy goa step beyond what seems right to her.
There are all kinds of boys. Her need is not to
please a lot of them, but to find the few whom she
can really be fond of. A boy who feels drawn to her
as a person and who is likely to appeal to her in the
long run will surely not be put off by her wish not
to pet. Though his physical desire and his need to
prove himself a man are urging him to try, the

idealistic side of him that admires her will actually

be glad to find that she is not cheap to get. Her
privacy about her physical self when combined
with her responsiveness to him as a person is just
what enhances her appealingness. It challenges
him to win her totally. If a girl can understand
this two-sided s of the male, she’s well on the
way to beco: saw in of the world.
What is most dif t for the young girl (though
it comes easily to the older one) is how to keep her
physical reserve without seeming to reject the boy

as a person. A boy i t think that on a date

with a new girl he should make some kind of ad-
vances so that the girl, if she is expecting this,
won't think he is a timid mou (This is an aspect
of his worry about whethe: e is masculine
enough.) He assumes she will stop him if sh

'ONS ADOLESCENTS ASK ABOUT SEX...

doesn’t want this. On the other hand, he dreads
being rebuffed. A young boy’s hesitancy may have
kept him debating with himself for hours or even
for days. In desperation he may suddenly make an
awkward pass or a lunge. A girl taken by surprise
is apt to recoil in alarm or act outraged. Even in
her later teen years a girl may find that a boy who
had never tried anything before is suddenly wres-
tling with her, especially if he has been drinking
to get his courage up. The girl’s job is to make it
clear that she does not want the advances but that
she still feels friendly toward him, appreciates his
interest in her. If he is a sensitive person it may be
sufficient for her to take his hand off her shoulder
gently. Or she can say in effect, “‘No, please don’t,”
or ‘I’m sorry, I don’t feel that way now,” without
reproaching him or getting angry. She acts as if it
were due to a misunderstanding, perhaps partly
her fault, rather than to his crudeness. A boy who
really likes a girl and wants to know her better will
be relieved to learn clearly what she wants and
doesn*t want.

But a young girl also needs to know that a boy
may keep persisting for a while, or argue and act
indignant, to cover up his hurt pride. He may try
to convince her that she’s a prude, or that she was
leading him on. She shouldn’t feel obliged to de-
fend her reasons or to make long speeches. That
only prolongs the uncomfortable argument. If he
has no sense, she may have to become really an-
gry. To get away from the arguments, she can try
to start the conversation up again where it left off,
or to let him know how much she enjoys his com-
pany in other situations. If she feels like it, she can
show that she still is friendly in a physical sense to
the degree of wanting to hold his hand. This helps
to ease his guilty fear that he has completely alien-
ated her. The next step will probably be to suggest
that it’s time to rejoin the gang or to be getting
home.

Vlore basically, a girl protects herself from un-
pleasant experiences by her general reputation, by
10l going on dates with a boy alone until she has
zot to know him in groups (and given him a chance

o know her), by not agreeing to drive with him to
secluded places, by immediately insisting that she

nust be getting home if he starts to park some-

job is to be careful that she is sending out the kine

BY BENJAMIN SPOCK, M.D.

where. It’s important for a young girl to know thaf
most boys brought up like herself, though the
would like to think of themselves as irresistibl@”
cavemen, are actually quite cautious most of th
time about not getting into situations in whick
they will be rebuffed and embarrassed. So they ar

always watching for signs and signals. The girl’

she means.

Romance is often painful in adolescence becaus
young people are so frequently disappointed b
those they have become fond of. A boy and girl ar
drawn together by mutual appeal and are delightee
to find how many interests and aspirations the
share. They begin to fall in love and promise devo
tion to each other. Then one of them loses his
enthusiasm and backs away, for no good reasor
that the other can see, or—worse still—becomes
more interested in somebody else. These disap
pointments can be terribly painful. They may
make the hurt young person fearful of becoming
involved with anyone else for a long time. Olde
people who have grown too far away from theif
own youth smile at these early love affairs, forget
ting that the emotions are just as intense as an)
that come later. It isn’t that the teenager is insin
cere or fickle in his love. There are other explana-
tions. One is that the teenager’s desire to find
someone to love intensely and his own idealism
make him liable to see wonderful qualities in the
other person which are not there, or make him
temporarily ignore unattractive qualities which
really are there. Time forces him to be more realis-
tic. Another problem is that the adolescent is still
developing rapidly—in his character, in his tastes.
in his aspirations. In a few months he may com-
pletely outgrow a person who was right for him
yesterday. A parent could advise a teenager to pro-
tect himself from being hurt by his beloved—or te
keep from hurting his beloved—by being cautious
about admitting love, or at least about declaring
it. This is unrealistic, though. The last thing a per-
son in love wants to be is cautious about telling

the other. Perhaps the CONTINUED ON PAGE 38

0 eee
This is the third and final article by Dr. Spock on

adolescents and sex problems.

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38
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 36

best that parents can do is persuade young
people in love to promise to tell each other
courageously if their feelings cool. This is
painful, too, but in the long run it is kinder
to the one who must be disappointed than to
have to spend weeks in anguished doubt.

Aside from the normal drives that draw
boys and girls together, it is good for young
people to realize that there are mixed-up de-
sires too. Iam thinking first of the individuals
who use all their wiles to make conquests of
members of the opposite sex. When that is ac-
complished, they lose interest in them and
drop them heartlessly. This is a selfish, hostile
use of sex. Usually these are people who have
felt neglected by their parents and are uncon-
sciously taking revenge on others instead.
There is a trace of the enjoyment of conquest
in most of us. It is apt to be stronger in early
adolescence, before tender feelings for special
members of the opposite sex have had a chance
to develop. When girls compete for boyfriends
by being easy to make, it accentuates the con-
quest-seeking attitudes in these girls and in
the boys they make a play for.

he are dozens of other mixed-up (neu-
rotic) patterns of relationships between the
sexes which show up clearly in marriages but
which cause difficulties in dating too: the ex-
cessively jealous person or the one who is
compelled unconsciously to make his beloved
jealous; the one who must always be quarrel-
ing; the individual who is constantly hurting
feelings or teasing, or who is asking to be hurt
or teased; the dominator; the submitter; the
person who can fall in love only with someone
who already belongs to another (and loses in-
terest as soon as the beloved becomes avail-
able), or the one who can fall in love only with
someone who is indifferent to him (and in-
stinctively pulls back as soon as he finds any
responsiveness); the individual who can feel
sexual attraction only toward those whom he
does not respect morally or socially. If an
adolescent has been disappointed and hurt by
finding an attitude such as one of these in the
person with whom he has fallen in love, it
may help him to free himself if he can realize
clearly that the unhappy experience may not
have been due to some misunderstanding be-
tween them but to an ingrained trait. If an in-
dividual finds that he is falling in love with one
person after another, each of whom disap-
points him in the same way, then there is
something in himself which is leading him into
these repeated frustrations. He can get help
from a psychiatrist.

An aspect of sex which is apt to be trouble-
some to adolescents is masturbation. Studies
have shown that most adolescents succumb to
the urge at least occasionally, but also that it
is much less frequert in those who become in-
volved in sexual relaticns. So it is really a
substitute outlet {ur young people in our kind
of civilization who must postpone the more
direct expression of their instincts. It contin-
ues to be a problem much longer for the indi-
viduals who are unusually slow in getting
around to dating and marriage. It’s of some
comfort to an adolescent to have his parent
explain that few people his age can resist the
temptation altogether and that it is not physi-
cally or psychologically harmful. The very
frank teenager may insist on asking, “But is it
wrong?” Each parent has to answer on the
basis of his religious and personal beliefs.
But even when the parent answers, “‘No, it’s
not wrong,” this will not make a young person
with high ideals feel entirely comfortable
about the habit. Incidentally I think it is a
mistake for a parent to say that masturbation
is not harmful “if not practiced too often.”
There is no medical basis for this distinction,
and it only shifts the worry of the person to
the question of what is “too often.”

All teenagers have concerns at times about
whether they are normal or abnormal—
physically, medically, psychologically, socially.
The slightest difference from others, real or
imaginary, may cause anxiety or despond-
ency. The fantasies (daydreams) about sexual
intimacies which their instincts create in their
imaginations, and which are often more
strange and “indecent” than anything they
have ever heard about, are apt to be particu-

larly disconcerting. They can be reassured
that most such fantasies are normal. (The
principal exception is fantasies that involve
harming or taking advantage of an unwilling
person. These should be discussed with a
psychiatrist.)

There are temptations which come particu-
larly strongly to boys who are more slow than
average in regard to the direct approach to
girls, such as peeping in windows, making
passes at strange girls in movie houses, in-
volving young children in sex play. It’s sensi-
ble for parents to seek psychiatric advice when
a child has special problems like these. But
it’s important for all adolescent boys to realize
clearly that these temptations are common and
that, since the law and other parents are se-
vere about such activities, they must firmly
resist these temptations in order to avoid get-
ting into real trouble.

Boys need to know that ‘‘nocturnal emis-
sions” (discharge of seminal fluid during sex-
ual dreams) are normal, and occur in all boys
not regularly having intercourse. Their fre-
quency or infrequency has no significance.

There are a few realistic points that need to
be made about venereal diseases. Their oc-
currence in young people has shot upward in
recent years because of the general relaxation
of sexual behavior. These diseases do not
come from doing what’s forbidden. They are
caught by having intercourse with individuals
who are infected. The people who are most
likely to be infected are those who are having

YEARS AGO
IN THE JOURNAL

That Old Girl of Mine was the hit tune
of May, 1912, when 10,000 suffragettes
marched in New York City, to the tit-
ters of onlookers. The U.S. Children’s
Bureau was brand-new; the man in the
flying machine, Wilbur Wright, died
in his bed of typhoid fever; and Ruth
Chatterton appeared on Broadway in
The Rainbow.

“About 93 out of every 100 American
families have no servants,’ observes
editor Bok in the May, 1912, Journal.
“Can you blame a young girl for seeking
factory work when a skilled household
cook works 85 to 90 hours a week for a
weekly salary of from $5 to $8?”

“‘T have been invited for a week’s trip in
an automobile,” writes a reader. “‘I feel
that a motoring bonnet which ties under
the chin is unbecoming. What would
you suggest?” Journal reply: ‘““A blue
taffeta tam-o’-shanter.”

“A pretty breakfast cap is made of fine
organdy trimmed with white lace and
tiny pink ribbon rosebuds.”’

Advises Dr. Coolidge, ‘‘Warm the little
baby’s feet in your hands before putting
on his long wool stockings. Never put
stockings over cold little feet.’

ee ener iz,

intercourse promiscuously—not being partic-
ular with whom or how many. Gonorrhea
shows itself primarily by an irritating white
discharge from the penis or vagina which be-
gins about five to seven days after the contact.
The first stage of syphilis, which takes several
weeks to develop, is a sore, which is usually
on the end of the penis in the boy but which
may be invisible in the vagina in the girl. It
takes weeks more before the rash of syphilis
appears, which looks something like measles,
numerous pink spots all over the body includ-
ing the front of the chest and abdomen. It’s
not at all similar to acne, which consists of a
relatively few raised pimples on the face and
shoulders alone. The most important point of
all is that gonorrhea and syphilis can both te
treated successfully, but they should be treated
promptly and thoroughly. Adolescents should
realize that if they are in trouble their parents
will want to know and help. But if they can’t
bear to tell their parents, they should go to
their family doctor whom they can trust, not
to an unknown doctor who may be a quack.

In view of the tensions and pitfalls of sex in
adolescence, what general advice can parents
give to their children?

I think myself that we’ve had enough ex-
perience with the recent social customs of
early dating and going steady to say that their
disadvantages outweigh any advantages. They
make young adolescents compete for partners
before they have a genuine need of each other,
which belittles the idea of love. They often
encourage physical intimacy long before teen-
agers are capable of knowing what partners
are right for them or what lasting love means.
Sometimes they lead to premature marriages
or illegitimate pregnancies which interfere
with healthy personality growth and shatter
educational plans—in a country where the
importance of continuing education is greater
every year.

I think it’s the duty of parents who disap-
prove of these customs to present their views
convincingly to their children. That’s what
parental experience and wisdom are meant
to be for. Parents will need to get what co-
operation they can from the neighbors who
agree with them, and the school people. This is
an ideal topic for PTA discussions in junior
high school. In some communities a majority
of the parents may be very much in favor of a
co-operative effort. Even if only a minority of
parents agree, each of their children will know
that there are some other young people in the
same situation as himself. It will be much
easier to start with children just on the
threshold of adolescence than to try to change
the rules for those in the middle.

A parent can explain to a child—especially
a mother to her daughter—that she considers
it unwise to agree to go steady until one has
known a person for a long time and is ready to
think about engagement and marriage. This
does not mean that a boy and girl can’t see a
lot of each other and, as they grow older and
fonder, have repeated dates. The disadvan-
tages of really going steady lie in the agree-
ment not to date others, not to dance with
others, the obligation to have regular dates
and to attend all possible social functions to-
gether. Youth is meant to be the time to get to
know a lot of people and oneself, not to retire
from circulation and spend all free time to-
gether, like a married couple.

A parent can also explain to an early ado-
lescent—particularly a mother to her daugh-
ter—that she doesn’t consider it wise for a
girl to go on single dates until she is several
years older. There will be plenty of opportuni-
ties to get to know boys at parties in homes
and school and church, and later, perhaps, in
movie parties made up of several couples
(with parents driving the cars). Parents can
show by their friendly manner that they are
not old fogies or killjoys. They want their
children to have the full benefit and fun of
adolescence. They want to keep them from
getting into situations where they might look
foolish or be miserable. Parents can also show
that they will always be ready to discuss the
rules—and changes in them—as the child
grows in experience and wisdom.

Even in the later teen years I think a mother
should encourage her daughter to have most
of her fun at parties or on double dates, to

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA})/y

keep to public places when she is on si e!
dates, and to avoid prolonged parking ar
petting until she is old enough and sure enoug!
to be thinking of an engagement.

What happens to sexual energy which is de}
nied direct expression? What outlets are avail
able to carefully reared children? Ordinar
social contact between boysand girls inschoo]
at parties, at dances probably relieves tensio
to a degree, even though there is no direct ex
pression of sexuality. It’s a common observa
tion in boarding schools for boys or girls tha
the complete absence of the opposite sex o!
leads to a constant and intense preoccupa tio
with the other sex. Soldiers stationed in
inhabited areas of the Pacific often talkeda
nothing but women. I also remember viv
when I was still in pediatric practice during t
war, that some girls whose fathers were o¥
seas when they themselves were four and fi
the age at which they are most intensely ai
tached to their fathers, would hurl themselye
on me during a house visit as if they wer
desperate for male company and affection.

Bas in boarding schools and colleges
always been exhorted to engage vigorousl
athletics and other extracurricular activiti
keep their minds off sex. A lot of fun has
poked at this simple-sounding solution, bi
there is probably considerable truth in j
Most married couples can testify that preo
cupation with family and business problen
distracts attention from sex to a degree,
that a leisurely, secluded vacation increas
desire.

Certainly we know today that the emotion
energy which makes an adolescent drea
idealistically about his future, the emotion
energy which spurs him forward in the stuc
of science or technology or the humanities ¢
the arts, comes in large part from a transfo
mation of his sexual drives. Statistics show thi
it is the adolescents who postpone the dire
expression of their sexuality who, on the ave
age, go further in their schooling and career
and that when adolescents marry young |
have sexual relations, their interest in studi
and ideas is apt to decline greatly.

Though we’ve been discussing the particul
problems of early adolescents, it might be we
to end up with a word on the relation bet
studying and sex at the college level. The cot
flict between education and a full sexual li
is not so sharp when real maturity is reac
The ex-soldiers who were already ma
and who returned to college after Wor
War II with a determination to gain all tl
benefits of education were generally a delig
to their instructors. But nowadays the pictu
is a mixed one in regard to married colle
students. When a marriage has been a
considered one between two unusually m
ture people, it may give greater purpose
their studies. But a less stable marriage
play hob with education. It is not simply
distraction of sex. The problems of mutua
justment, which are inevitable in all marriag
may reach stormy levels so much of the tin
that concentration is impossible. Econom
need sometimes compels the wife to go |
work. The unplanned arrival of children con
pounds the problems of finances, concentri
tion and marital adjustment.

In today’s atmosphere of greater sexu
freedom, unmarried college students who a!
not ready to fall seriously in love or to havea
affair are sometimes made to feel, by
less inhibited girl and boy friends, that th fl
are therefore abnormal. It would be a greéi
mistake for such individuals to be persu
by this bogus reasoning. College counselo’
are impressed with how disturbing sexual’
fairs may be. They seriously detract int
and time from studies, extracurricular acti
ties, the forming of friendships, the broa
ing of perspectives, which only the co
years can provide so richly. The fear of
nancy and of detection, the sense of gul
create a constant strain in all but the
blasé. I think that the college student
wants to be very sure that he or she is
for marriage, and has found the right pe
before becoming involved, is to be ad
and congratulated.

j
1)
ft

Dr. Spock regrets that it is impossible for him to
letters personally. However, he is delighted to ree
suggestions of topics of truly general interest. —E,

MAY, 1962

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Kim Novak lay stretched out on the carpet of her Bel

@ Air living room, her head against a circular couch cozily

e upholstered in what appeared to be gray pussywillow.
‘Love, yes,’’ she said earnestly. ‘‘l need it and want

it. But marriage is something else. It frightens me. It
frightens me more and more as | grow older. |’m ter-
rified of being trapped.”’

Kim, at twenty-nine, is one of the few Hollywood god-
desses who have sidestepped matrimony (and the
divorce courts), although her romances with some of
the world’s richest and handsomest men are legend-
ary—among them Frank Sinatra, Cary Grant, the late
Prince Aly Khan, Lieutenant Colonel Rafael Trujillo Jr.,
and Roman aristocrat Count Mario Bandini.

‘Maybe I’m a lone voice out of millions, but | hate
this pressure to get married early. If you don’t marry
by the time you’ re twenty-one, you’re considered ready
for the old maid’s rocking chair. I’ve talked to so many
girls who think marriage is something they must win,
like a tennis match, rather than something they want
from the depths of their hearts. They end up miserable
and wondering where all the heavenly bliss is.

‘For one thing, I’m a Catholic, and I’ve been raised
to believe that marriage is forever. This doesn’t mean
I’d consider marrying only a Catholic. One of the men
| nearly married is Jewish, and our religious differ-
ences never bothered me. If love is right, it’s as strong
as religion, and God helps you work out the details.

“Right now, I’m breaking up with the most impor-
tant man in my life, Dick Quine. He directed my first
screen test and some of my movies, including The
Notorious Landlady, which will be out soon. I’ve come
closer to marriage with Dick than with anyone. The fact
that it didn’t work out isn’t his fault only—I’m to blame,
too. When you get down to it, I’m probably afraid of
being unable to change.

‘| don’t want to be changed. It’s taken me long
enough to understand who | am. All my friends say the
longer you wait, the harder marriage is, because you
won't compromise as easily. I’ve heard all that talk—
that marriage depends on compromises—and I’ve
seen the mistakes my parents made in their marriage.
But | don’t want compromises in my marriage. | want
it to be as perfect as | can make it.”’

Rising from the floor, she ruffled her hair and
stretched. Her living room, done in her favorite lav-
enders and purples, blues and grays, glowed in fire-
light from the stone fireplace. Her great Dane, Warlock,
lay beside the fire, and her Siamese cat, Pyewacket,
crouched in front of the huge picture window over-
looking Los Angeles. Kim’s secretary, Barbara Mellon,
a friend from Chicago high-school days, shares the
house with her, although, Kim is quick to point out,
‘“‘she has her own personal life, and it never interferes
with mine. The older | get, the fussier | am about
privacy. When | study a script or paint, | have to be
alone. | can’t express my deep feelings in front of a
lot of people. | can’t let go.”’

Pointing to the extraordinary oil paintings on the
cypress-paneled walls, she said, ‘‘l painted these in
total silence. | spent months on them because | wanted
them to be as perfect as | could make them. And that’s
what | demand—perfection—from marriage.”’

WILLOUGHBY

by George Christy

SN teeta ite nanan

CONTINUED ON PAGE 113

DALMAS-PIX

“Cary has more energy than any
other man | know.’’ (At Cannes.)

Sinatra sent violets, love. “But | |

couldn't live the way he wanted to.”’ |

GLOBE

|
Aly Khan, ‘‘aman every woman would ||
adore.’’ But poor marriage risk. ||

i
}
i
i
|

HAMMOND

Dick Quine almost passed Kim’s ||
marriage test. He’s a movie director. |

JACK ALBIN

|
iH
i
fi

% - |

Mac Krim didn’t understand her}
moods; Trujillo wrote poetry for her. |
3 |

“Look,” he asked, “would you get

your feelings hurt if I began to

ouldn’t stand you?”

as if 5c

act

Boys are all girls talk about in free
time. But what do boys do when they
come to parties? They come as if
someone pushed them from behind.

I am thirteen—almost fourteen—and I am not nor-
mal. Do you know what you have to do to be normal
at my age? You have to giggle in groups, call up boys
on the telephone, and fight for the right to wear lip-
stick and eye shadow. You have to make big, exciting
plans for the two or three stupid dances we are al-
lowed each year, think your parents are too square to
be human, and make a love affair out of every ‘‘Hi’”’
the delivery boy gives you as he hands you a package
at the door. Do you blame me for being maladjusted ?

I have known that I am for a long time, and all my
tests at Worthington Women’s Academy bear it out.
I do fine on intelligence tests and aptitude tests, but
my behavior patterns drive the counselor crazy. Why
don’t I adjust to the group? Were my parents too
strict? Does my father love my mother? And why
are my reactions so peculiar ?

It is hard for the school to cope with my kind of
problem. They think I probably have frustrations,
but they are not sure what they are. If I took my in-
securities out in forbidden trips to town, or overeat-
ing, or smoking after lights were out, they would know
exactly what to do. All those things are such standard
practices that they have Plan A—‘“‘How to Approach
the Gluttony Problem’; Plan B—‘‘Tobacco and
Frustrations,” and so on, all on file and ready to use.

But I am different in a different sort of way and
they don’t know quite what to do about it. I’m sure
they will start a file on my type “‘pattern’”’ for anyone
else who comes along to need it. As for me, Iam happy
as long as I have something interesting to study or a
stack of books and some peace and quiet.

Take this last weekend. I had a chemistry experi-
ment going that was absolutely something. It needed
a lot of time and I wanted to spend my weekend on
it. I couldn’t help it if there was this old dance coming
up. Miss Jameson, the chemistry prof, was all for me
until the dean got wind of it. Taggart called me in and
told me I’d much rather go to the dance.

“But this is the only way I can get twenty-four
hours to check regularly,’ I tried to tell her. “If I
can’t, I’ll have to give up the whole experiment.”

“I’m sure there will be other interesting experi-

ments,” she said. How do people __continuep oN PAGE 122

ne ——

By EDWIN LANHAM

For more than thirty years Mr. Hyman had sold newspapers in
his stationery and candy store on the corner of Sixth Avenue.
The clamor and the violence of a soaring city had passed daily
through his hands in exchange for the price of a nev yspaper, but
until this weekend in June when tragedy struck around the
corner at No. 62, no news story had ever before hit him where
he lived—among the kids of the neighborhood.

Hyman knew kids and loved them. These two who had
just come into the store were new to the neighborhood. It was
maybe five months since they had moved in, Mr. Hyman re-
flected, a gentle little girl about ten years old and a brother,
maybe six, who never said much. The boy’s name was Benjy,

the little girl was Sheilah—shortened by her brother to ‘“‘Shee.’*}»
She took care of him like a little mother.

“What can I do for you today?’’ Mr. Hyman asked.

“‘Some change to telephone, please,’’ Sheilah said, and put al
two-dollar bill on the counter. Seeing how his hand hesitated, }{:
she added, “‘That’s good luck, you know.” |

‘So it’s good luck? A two-dollar bill good luck?”’

“It is for me.’”’ She smiled, and her face came alive and her
nose wrinkled where there was a little band of freckles across}
it. ““When I was going on eight I found a two-dollar bill on i
the street and I wouldn’t spend it, and when my daddy asked}:
me what I wanted for my birthday I said a two-dollar bill so};

GEORGE ELLIOT

w jungle by night. Two small children are lost there, stalked by a killer.

© gave me eight—one for each year. The next year I got nine
nd last birthday it was ten, so I’ve got twenty-eight two-dollar
ills, counting the one I found. Now isn’t that good luck?”’

“T wouldn’t want to break your luck,’ Mr. Hyman said.
Keep the bill, and a dime I’ll lend you for the telephone.”

“It’s for out of town, though,” Sheilah said doubtfully. ‘‘It
nll take a quarter.”

“OK,” said Mr. Hyman. “I trust you.”

These were good kids, he thought as she took the little boy
y the hand and led him into the telephone booth at the back of
he store, but*there was something sad about them, and he saw
; in their mother too. She came into the store fairly often to

pick up a newspaper or a pack of cigarettes, a good-looking
blonde who was some kind of artist. She was divorced from her
husband, the doorman at No. 62 had told Mr. Hyman, and
spent some time in Belardo’s down the street, but she was al-
ways a lady. Just bored, probably, and lonely. Very nice peo-
ple went to Belardo’s; it wasn’t one of those Village joints.

“Daddy, is that you?” Sheilah called eagerly into the tele-
phone. Because it was Saturday she had put the call through,
not to his office just off Madison Avenue but to the white
house in the woods where they had all used to live, up across
the Hudson River in Rockland County. “I’m in a telephone
booth with Benjy and he wants to say hello.”

CONTINUED ON PAGE 72

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The parlor is all Moravian: Mrs. V.’s sewing table, the characteristically

ee Sd

‘rom the old town pump a mere taste of the restoration takes in the John Vogler house, center, on Main Street, leading left to the old Moravian tavern.

Dawn Service at Old Salem

Of all the places of this country’s
past, Old Salem is one whose strains
of its European heritage are most
movingly intermingled with our
own, in the cultural overtones of its
worship, its architecture and its
music. Attractive at all times, it is
especially so in the spring, a season
ushered in at Easter by a custom that
is typical of the town. Long before
daylight groups of horn players begin
winding and playing through the
streets. The bell-like tones blow
beautifully closer, and die away in
the distance, while other bands in
turn take up the traditional tunes.
Sleepers awake! is the cue they give.
And you join the other awakened
‘sleepers: along the lamplit streets
that lead to the church where the
sunrise service starts. The bricks of

PHOTOGRAPHS BY EZRA STOLLER

Here in this eighteenth-century
Moravian part of Winston-
Salem, North Carolina, is being
carried out one of the most no-
table restorations of our time.

SETTINGS BY DOROTHY PRATT

the houses are molded and baked
from the soil of the town, and in
many cases the walls and doorways
are enriched with early Moravian
ironwork. All ceremonies center
around the noble old church, just as
they do every Easter dawn. Next to
the church, the Moravians’ God’s
Acre is a scene at all times of park-
like tranquillity. An avenue of an-
cient trees cuts across the green-
sward where the gravestones lie flat
and serene upon the grass. Every
morning the stones pick up the first
pink level streaks of dawn, as they
do at Easter when the horns play
from separated points in the bright-
ening burial ground; first one, then
another, then another. .. . And then,
as the sun itself appears, the congre-

gation sings. BY RICHARD PRATT

ee
ne

“a\ 2.

and pottery

7 ee f
BERNIE FUCHS

She made the call from the station. She had meant to call
later, if at all— What was the use? Why bother?—but the crowds
waiting for the incoming passengers, the mob surging against the
lines, eagerly scanning every face, brought it all back to her: the
sense of not belonging, of not existing, the empty feeling she had
fought for so long and—so she thought—finally licked. Kay Hart-
ley, who was in her Contemporary Lit class and had ridden in with

1
t

her, gave a shout, a wave, tossed a “‘’Bye now, have fun!”’ over

her shoulder, and sprinted to meet her folks. She saw a row of

phone booths, started past, thought, Might as well call Jane. But
wl osit he coin, it was another number she dialed.
‘Watson and Moorehead,” said a voice.
“Mr. Moorehead, please,”’

her throat was drv:

she told its owner. To her annoy-
already she was going on the defensive.

‘‘Who’s calling, please?” You’d better be pretty important, sa
the voice, or your business had better be pretty important, or y
haven’t got a chance.

‘His daughter.”’ She tried to let it go at that, but long habit
the fear of being a nuisance, an inconvenience—drove her on. *
he’s busy, or something, I can ——’’

‘“One moment, please.”

She waited, opening her purse for more change, if neede
pinching the clasp tightly against her index finger. Steady no]
silly ; what in the world are you getting shaky about? Through t
booth window, she saw Kay Hartley swinging along between f}
parents, laughing, and trying to talk to both of them at once.

Her father came on. ‘‘Claire, honey, how are you?”

“Fine, dad.’’ She tried to make her voice gay. “And you?’

varles kept looking at her grimly. “Don’t you think it’s time you stopped being a problem ?” he said.

+ “All right, Claire,’ he told her. “In for the Easter holidays?”
f “Yes.”
_ There was a pause. They had covered the amenities, the gamut
€ their usual conversation. She heard her father call to someone
fmed Jim to come in and sit down, he’d be right with him. Then:
“Why didn’t you write me you'd be in?”

“I did wri’ She dug hard on the clasp, squashing her
iger, driving the sudden flash of anger back into the dark recess
om which it sprang. What was the use? “I’m just passing through

my way to Jane Furman’s, and thought I’d say hello.”
7 want you to look at this, Jim,”’ her father was saying.

Sometimes the person who

eee accepts a gift is more
‘ame in the mail this morning. If those fellows think for a : E a fier

: Oe ; 2 jer
BHnute they can ——— Claire, look. I want to see you. It’s been a Sa a eae SENET UUCT,

Ihg time, hasn’t it? Three months.”’ CONTINUED ON PAGE 99 BY WILLIAM COLE

——E ee ee) —— 7 Sh eee io
ays _ LATS bah

am
Sa te eee ee

ne
id
mart cic ¥ ee

Wearing her ‘honeymoon hat,’”’ Mrs. Jackson walks the
beach in her printed beach dress, tied at the waistline.

aie

zabeth

tewart.

EWART

There’s

something
about

her

enator Jackson and his bride on a holiday.
By Wilhela Cushman

|For our first dancing date, | wore a short black sheath dress,”
Is. Jackson remembers. ‘ ‘Scoop’ likes me in black.”’

Helen Jackson is happily offhand about her clothes. ‘‘l have the
niest wardrobe you ever saw. | never seem to wear anything
tt. When a special occasion comes along, | rush out and buy some-
ng at the last minute.’’ (With her 22” waistline, she has the
ky figure for the summer’s new small-waisted fashions and she’s
berfect Size 8.)

“Black tie’ is the most mysterious thing in Washington,’’ Mrs.

Paar

bkson reflects. “It depends on the hostess and the locale, whether
go short or long.’’ She needs variety, wears short dresses when-
pr possible because the senator prefers short.

Heda
: x gaa

Me Bai

Asked if he goes shopping with her, he reverses the answer: ‘‘|
ist that she go with me, so | don’t get my ties mixed up, or get
fouled up on the wrong combinations.”

or a week at Caneel Bay in the Virgin Islands (where we took
p photographs) or a summer vacation anywhere in the U.S.A.,
s. Jackson, like millions of other Americans, sticks to clothes
ft are simple, easy to pack and care for, made for the outdoors
je love to walk, swim, fish, bicycle,’’ she says. “Il wear shorts and
icks whenever | can.” The senator approves and she has the

n, long-legged figure for them. As a practical matter, an eight- Mrs. Jackson wears a checkerboard knit, a dress that looks like summertime For going places or for summer in the Capital, Mrs. Jack-
e wardrobe fulfills all occasions. This consists of: a lightweight U.S.A., Washington, D.C., to the state of Washington. By Anne Fogarty. son likesa linen jacket dress by Anne Fogarty and a beret.

itted jacket dress, a bright-color linen jacket dress, a checked
wal, a black crepe any-occasion dress, printed chiffon dance
SS, a printed cotton beach or play dress, matching printed cotton
hing suit, anda seven-eighths-length coat to go with everything.
bse.are all clothes she will wear into the summer.
er lemon-yellow coat is a2 new length, four inches above the
. She fs almost never without a scarf in her hand, to keep her
from blowing whether boarding a plane or taking the shuttle
he Senate Building—‘“it makes such a breeze.” She likes a
dbag that’s big enough “‘to carry just about everything, from
elry to a sandwich.”
Henry Martin Jackson, senator from the state of Washington,
hairman of the Territories Committee and a member of the
t Committee on Atomic Energy. Mrs. Jackson, who attended
sar, Scripps College and Columbia University (shelearned to
ein high school and picked up speed writing after college), intends
BO on’ studying—languages and public speaking. “You never
iW when you're going to be called on to say a few words.” She
S forward to entertaining in their own home, likes to work out
orating schemes herself, prefers “contemporary, because it is
ple, tranquil and“easy to live with.”

+
(wo-

a idsummer dancing: tiny-waisted, short and full—a printed chiffon, draped Mrs. Jackson likes traveling clothes that weigh next to Her holiday coat is lemon-peel fleece by Henry Friederichs: her
© shoulder, by Anne Klein, that pleases both the senator and Mrs. Jackson. nothing. This knitted jacket dress is by Robert Goldworm. pocket black crepe dress

=]
=

ust about everything’ by Ben Barrack

Raincoats are the splashiest,
gayest, most color-mad fashion
of the spring: pure silk, cotton
denim, flower prints, abstract
prints, plastic patent leather,
wide-wale corduroy, pastel pop-
lin—all processed, naturally, for

The yellow-rose raincoat, a cotton print treated
for wet weather, with velvet collar, by Sher-
brooke. The patent-leather boots by Golo match
the roses. Plastic umbrella by Rain Products.

Dressed in silk for the rain in pink-peony
and red-peony colors, rain hats to match,
by Adele Lawrence. Paper-white plastic boots
by U. S. Rubber, striped silk umbrella.

Flame-color wide-wale corduroy—a between-
seasons Cape, a travel cape, a summer-night
Cape as well as a rain cape. By Modelia, worn
with Capezio’s high patent-leather bcots.

Fashion of the rain cape in shiny plastic that
looks like patent leather; one in slicker yellow,
the other in lipstick red by Beatrice Green for
Manufax. Red patent-leather boots by Golo,
white ribbed-plastic boots by U. S. Rubber.

Denim and red cotton, reversible—young coat
for rain or shine. From March and Mendl,
worn with high red patent-leather boots,
short white cotton gloves, plastic umbrella.

Pastel poplin, weather-resistant, makes any
girl pretty in the rain, by Aquascutum. Most
becoming with flower-printed silk scarves by
Vera. White plastic boots by U. S. Rubber.

protection against the rain, but
so attractive and so versatile that
they often become all-purpose
coats. Girls with the know-how
wear them with plastic and pat-
ent-leather boots, gay umbrel-
las. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain.

PHOTOGRAPHS BY WILHELA CUSHMAN

NEW
SYNTHETICS

Look cool, crisp and beautiful

The nicest things can be said about the new
synthetics. They are wonderfully light in weight;
they wash with a minimum of effort and dry with
amazing speed; and best of all, they are lovely to BRIGHE
look at. Gay flower prints, crisp seersucker stripes, AS A BUTTON...
bright polka dots; and for travel, the lightweight
knits are a great boon. Not only are they comfort-
able to wear and practically wrinkle-free .

but they pack into a minimum amount of space.
Consider these virtues when you are shopping for
summer materials in your local fabric department.

By NORA O'LEARY

PATTERN EDITOR

Red Arnel surah covered with large white polka
dots makes this ruffled stole a perfect topping
for a two-piece white rayon-and-acetate dress with
an easy pleated skirt. Vogue Design No. 5544.

CRISP AS
LETTUCE:

FRESH AS
ACDATSY 7.

An all-over daisy print on sheer Dacron and cotton
is fresh and pretty. It has a feminine ruffle down
the front and a sash of three shades of ribbon
picking up the print colors. Vogue Design No. 5545.

The crispest, brightest seersucker is a blend of
Arnel and cotton. The design takes advantage of
the stripe for detail and has white buttons down
the back. The dress is Vogue Design No. 5555.

TRAVELS BY JET...

A charming marbleized design in cherry-red and
white on nylon jersey is as streamlined as a jet
plane. The hood is attached (to shield you from
drafts). It buttons in front. Vogue Design No. 5483.

Some of the prettiest summer dresses this sum-
mer will have ruffles. This gay yellow Fortrel-and-
cotton voile has a double picoted ruffle on the
skirt and at the neckline. Vogue Design No. 5554.

AEN at et NEO i ali aR DEY. MSTA CUR

PRETTY) ASA
PIGTURE:...

IGE TAS

S.. A AEE ash spre ars aS 5 Data yi Pret ne se See

bs
2

COOL AS
A CUCUMBER...

This is a most amusing and colorful print, and
the dress weighs a mere 4 ounces. Make a match-
ing nylon knit 5” X 7” drawstring bag to pack the
dress into. It will fit. Vogue Design No. 5556.

This geometric print on textralized nylon knit is
one of the best travelers in the fabric market. Not
only is it cool and comfortable, but it is wonder-
fully light, packable. Vogue Design No. 5556.

OTHER VIEWS, SIZES, PRICES OF VOGUE PATTERNS
ON PAGE 125.

A PEATOER

pom

which Are
Easier 10 Halse,
Ms

By BETTY HANNAH HOFFMAN

“Both boys and girls are easy to raise,” says the irre-
pressible short-story writer, Will Stanton, ‘“‘provided
they aren’t your own. To anyone still uncommitted, I
would recommend tropical fish. They are noiseless, don’t
imitate the Three Stooges and have never been known
to lose a lunch box.”

Most of us are committed (including, incidentally, ©
Mr. Stanton), so we pushed on for more helpful answers.
They came in on both sides of the fence. Anthropologist | |
and parent Dr. Ashley Montagu, author of The Natural —
Superiority of Women told us, “I would say that girls are i |
easier to raise because they are hardier at all ages than — pi
boys. They are braver over the long haul and stand up — f
better to pressure.”’

Art Buchwald, of the New York Herald Tribune, tot
from Paris, ‘Personally, I prefer boys, because you can
belt them harder. Girls bruise too easily. On the other #
hand, it’s easier to get a girl to give you a kiss in the
morning.”” Then he settled on the fence. ‘Actually, wey
make no distinction between our boy, aged eight, and I
our two girls, aged six and five. We often don’t know
who is what, since when they cry they all sound alike.”

The number of fence-sitters surprised us. Said Joan
Crawford, ‘I remember the answer of a woman who had }
eight children, when asked which caused the most worry: ))™
“The one who’s sick until he’s well; the one who’s away 7.
from home until he returns.’”’ j

“Temperamental differences are more important than |
sex differences,’’ believes Dr. Lillian Gilbreth, whose)“
twelve children inspired the book and the movie, Cheaper )
by the Dozen, “‘for some children seem to be especially
emotionally charged.”

“A parent may feel that one child is easier to raise |”
than another,” says actress Dina Merrill, “but that de- |}
pends solely on the rapport between the two rather thea
the sex of the child.” |i

Shirley Jackson, who wrote a hilarious book about
child raising, replied from her Vermont farmhouse,

“Why not ask something simple like, “Day after scream- e
ing day, which is more downright irritating, a thirteen- 3
year-old girl or an untrained puppy?’ or “Would you L..
rather entertain fourteen ten-year-old boys at abirthday!)~"
“Boys are more mischievous and girls are more fun to r :
dress”’ . . . ETHEL KENNEDY a
“Would you rather entertain fourteen ten-year-old boys at mh

a birthday party or go to Macy’s on Christmas Eve?” |}
. . SHIRLEY JACKSON [it

“Boys ask the most embarrassing questions, but girls ask)”

them in a more carrying voice”’ . . . WILL STANTON |,
SQ

“When we have a discipline problem in grade school, nine |, ;
times out of ten it’s a boy” ... A PRINCIPAL} —

se is

OF Girls?

}

party or go shopping at Macy’s on Christmas Eve?’ I
really don’t know whether boys or girls are harder to
raise. I’m not even sure we are raising ours.”

| Obviously it was going to be hard to pin this question
down, so we decided to consider it in stages, comparing
some of the problems of boys vs. girls at various ages
(always keeping in mind, of course, that there are boyish
zirls and girlish boys and a million exceptions to every
cule).

First we put five pages of questions to a group of 700
Jsuburban mothers and fathers who had children ranging
}n age from just-born to just-married (an interval which
Js getting shorter all the time). We consulted, too, all
}xinds of charts and statistics.

_ More boy babies are born than girls, but during the
First year of life they die at a rate 30 percent higher than
Jzirl babies. The first four months of life are the most
Brrucial. Between the ages of one and four, 25 percent
}nore boys than girls are killed in accidents. Only in fires
Jand explosions are more little girls killed—reflecting, so
piatisticians say, their greater tendency to stay around
the house.

3 As preschoolers, little girls are supposedly more docile
and little boys more aggressive, but Dr. Spurgeon Eng-
Bish, child psychiatrist, says you cannot generalize. Ac-
bording to our Journal poll of parents, little girls are as
fictive and demanding as little boys, and have as many
Jeating problems. Boys are a little more destructive and a
Tittle harder to toilet-train and definitely resist getting
‘Hiressed up.
| Nora Johnson, daughter of Nunnally Johnson and
Perself a talented writer, has called the job of getting
oys and girls through infancy, “the nerve-racking,
‘Pnindless, battering-ram process of trying to teach a sav-
* lige to use a fork.’’ Many a mother of preschool children,
“Wveary of wiping little red noses and removing tar from
she rug and hairbrushes from the toilet bowl, has com-
“Jorted herself with the thought that when they start
“Fchool things will be different. This is true. The problems

‘Jvon’t be fewer, but they'll be different.

' Teachers now know why boys have more trouble

earning to read and write CONTINUED ON PAGE 116

hirls are more likely to find admiration for their beauty
Stimulating” . . . PROFESSOR EDGAR FRIEDENBERG

irls are vulnerable. Vulnerable to what? Well, to boys”
. . . ROBERT YOUNG
§t takes me twice as long to outfit our daughter for

cchool as it does to outfit both our boys”
_ . . . DINA MERRILL

Tiirls are easier to raise because they are hardier at all
nl
ges than boys”’ . . . DR. ASHLEY MONTAGU

1OTOGRAPHS BY WAYNE MILLER

aa.

There’s something about Saturday night that
brings out the sparkle in a girl. It’s traditionally
“dress up’ night—the time when you take a
little more care than usual to look your very best.

Here... five special ‘‘looks” on five different

girls of five different ages. They all have one
thought in mind: to havea simply marveloustime!

please: herself and her husband, who wants her

to look ‘‘extra special’’ when they go out. Eye
makeup, including shadow and liner, is fine for evening,
but Joe vetoes false eyelashes, which Joan tried once.
For tonight Joan had her hair done (usually does it
herself), added pink nail polish to flatter her pretty
hands. Bright colors highlight dark hair and a fair com-
plexion; her blue-and-white cocktail dress ‘‘makes me
feel extra special, as if I’m out with my best beau.” Al-
though she’s the mother of a three-year-old, Joan’s
aura of radiant simplicity makes her sparkle like the
bride she became six years ago. Dress by Jonny Herbert.

1 Attractive JOAN KINDRED has two people to

makeup,”’ says fourteen-year-old

subdeb MADELINE BURNS, but for
Saturday night a light lipstick is allowed.
Madeline’s fresh, glowing good looks
didn’t just happen—she helps along her
naturally bright complexion by using a
medicated cream each night (‘‘just in
case’’), keeps her dark hair shiny-clean,
swept to the side with the ends turned
up. Madeline has a wardrobe of head-
bands which she changes to match her
outfits. Here a yellow hair bow sets off
her daisy-sprinkled dress. Result: a look
as vibrant and gay as the time she is hav-
ing. Photographed at the Trianon Room.

2 “Mother doesn’t like me to wear

Executive’s wife, MRS. RICHARD
A wrexriano enjoys entertaining at

home. Her look is one of glamour and
sophistication, never overdone. She ex-
periments with makeup and hair color
(“I’ve gone from ‘natural mouse’ to black
to blond with streaks’’), craves excite-
ment in fashion. Her elegant figure is
perfect for a pink silk blouse and floor-
length chiffon skirt. Nail polish is a
must—so are cake-type makeup, powder,
and eye makeup expertly applied. Each
week she has her hair done, prefers a
free-flowing style which softly frames her
face. With her flair for the dramatic, Mrs.
Wheatland has the courage to follow her
own style convictions—and she dresses
up an evening by her very appearance.

“I'm a quick-change artist,’ sighs career-gill
4 HOPE RYDEN, a researcher for documentar,
films. Because dates often begin right after work

she must always look well groomed. Hope wears
minimum amount of makeup—lipstick, matte-finis}
foundation that needs no powder. “Blondes have suc}
light brows and lashes that eye makeup is essential.
She defines brows with a light sweep of her mascar
brush, applies mascara to pale lashes. Her hair is lo
(‘Saves trips to the beauty parlor’’) but looks short. *
trim the front and sides, wind the back into a twist.
Because her work demands flexibility, Hope prefe
separates—which also extend into evening. She keep
a dressy pair of shoes and accessories at the offic
Here she arrives at the theater in a black ottoman dregs
(minus white daytime jacket). Her ‘‘look’’ is one 4
easy elegance. .. which doesn’t take hours to achiev

“|

Tall, 5'3” LYNDA CLAYTOR, a college junior, loves
beautiful fabrics and simple lines that she plays
up with her flair for dazzling accessories.(One ex- «
ample: she'll often wear a striking pin on her belt.) Fq
tonight’s dinner date she loves the contrast of a flare
black skirt with a white back-buttoned bolero, peq
necklace and large turquoise pin. Lynda prefers
casual hairstyle, brushed back from her forehead in
soft wave. During classes, lipstick is her only cosmeti
for an evening out, she applies makeup with a profe
sional hand. Her eyes are a lovely blue-gray “whit
change with whatever | wear. | use blue, green or gf
eye shadow, depending on the color of my dress."’ H
over-all effect rates summa cum laude for a colle}
girl: a delightful blend of youth and sophisticatic
Pin by Hattie Carnegie. Photographed at Café Nicholsc¢

HAIR DESIGNS BY ROBERT VERDI PHOTOGRAPHS BY FRANCES MC LAUGHLIN-

—

NORMAN KARLSON

There never was a better time for ter-
races than summer, spring, fall and
winter. They have all the virtues of
patios, gardens and porches combined.
They’re the heavenly room you step
out into from the house: sky for ceil-
ing, earth for floor. Wonderful ways of
all kinds are at hand to get shade, shel-
ter, privacy, and a smooth, dry surface
underfoot. In fact, most of them are
set forth in this portfolio, complete
with ideas for comfort, convenience
and plain delight. And a universal fea-
ture of a terrace is that any house can
have one. What’s more, it will be a bet-
ter house for having one: better to look
at, better to live in.

Terrace planning isn’t handicapped
or hedged in by hard-and-fast rules,
but here are a few things to keep in
mind. Keep it easy to step back and
forth between terrace and indoors;
you'll use it a lot more. The closer

Here the terrace is an inviting break be-
tween the living room and the garden.

The accent is Pennsylvania Dutch and the
treatment Bucks County baroque with its
elegant gaudiness on windows, door and
paneled screen. Cement floor is spatter.

FRANK LOTZ MILLER

oO)

eaee

rl CD rnd es
pri rl oo

Here the flavor is decidedly peppermint: the

pinks, the stripes of the stools, the shadows.

together the floor levels of house and terrace, the better; the ter-
race slightly lower. This should be the case even if you have to treat
the terrace like a porch, and build it up off the ground.

The two best exposures are southern and eastern. In the South,
northern exposure can be cooler. The low-slanting afternoon-sun
glare makes a western exposure somewhat trying in summer with-
out elaborate precautions. But small trees will often do the trick,
and can give a street-front terrace all the privacy you wish.

What do they cost? This is up to you, and your house. But to
give you an idea, the range here was roughly from $500 to $1500.

The pleasure value of each terrace, of course, is out of sight.

Outdoor dining here is the big idea: a billow

of bright annuals, and plastic translucence.

An old house comes to life with a terrace of

scintillating shade and fuchsia trees abloom.

On this brilliant cozy-corner terrace, beds,

baskets and benches burgeon with petunias.

IIA FURR OED RIP RESET DS SERIE NS! TOFD EG TETIOS

pears

RE a

By NANCY CRAWFORD WOO}

4
lay is the month for the sweetest-flavored straw-
yerries, for juicy tender rhubarb and sun-ripened
aspberries. Start with our Dresden-pink strawberry
lorte, three layers of featherlight cake, each with
i, baked-on crisp meringue. Top with rosy straw-

verries and swirl heavenly pink whipped cream on

he sides. (Low-in-calorie dessert topping mix would
ubstitute beautifully for the diet-conscious.)

| Make a coral-pink fruit compote with luscious
‘hunks of rhubarb, fans of fresh pineapple pinked
vith grenadine—add a few whole strawberries for a

‘rown. Try icy pink rhubarb sherbet shimmering

}
j

with raspberry sauce and sections of ripe pears; try
raspberry-cream ring crested with fresh berries
and raspberry-currant sauce.

STRAWBERRY TORTE
1 package white-cake mix
2 egg yolks
14s teaspoons almond
flavoring
4 egg whites
4; teaspoon cream of
tartar
1 cup sugar

*s teaspoon nutmeg

2 cups heavy cream,
whipped, (or dessert
topping mix)

Few drops red food
coloring

1 quart strawberries,
washed and hulled

Mix the cake according to package directions, but
use 2 egg yolks in place of the egg whites and add 1
teaspoon almond flavoring. Divide the batter evenly
among three 9” layer-cake pans which have been
lined with waxed paper. Refrigerate until the me-
ringue is ready. Beat the egg whites with the cream
of tartar until frothy. Gradually add the sugar, 2
tablespoons at a time, beating well after each addi-
tion. Continue beating until all sugar is dissolved
and avery stiff meringue is formed. Fold in the nut-
meg and spread the meringue evenly over the tops
of the three pans of batter. Bake in a slow oven,

Recipes continued on page 106.

3 SALAD
| UNCHIEONS

BY LOUELEA Gs SROUER

May is the merriest month and a lovely time, we think, tocharm
your friends with salad luncheons—before a few rubbers of
bridge, perhaps, or a shower for a bride-to-be. We’ve three
luncheons from which to choose. The first (shown opposite),
and one that dieters will relish: shrimp salad, luscious and low-
calorie, mixed with water chestnuts and a whisper of dill, served a. :
with eggs under rosemary aspic. Fresh mushrooms and i
tomatoes are arranged on the plate in thinnest slices. i

A second party salad: tender chicken chunks tossed in f
creamy dressing with frosty green grapes, crescents of celery UF
and mandarin oranges. Garnish this one withham andchicken-
liver-pate rolls. The perfect beginning for this menu is mush- :
room consommé—minced mushrooms simmered in con- ,
sommeé, then dashed with lemon juice, or white wine if you like. Hh

To show off your prettiest salad bowl, luncheon number i
three: tongue and veal strips julienne, crisp greens, sweet- |!
onion rings and cherry tomatoes joined in a dressing seasoned
with capers and green chili peppers. Golden corn sticks com-
plete this menu. Which of the three shall it be? We think we'll
do them all—just because it’s spring!

MENU | (Low Calorie) —>
Clam Broth with Yogurt and Basil
Poppy-Seed Wafers
‘Rosemary Eggs

*‘Low-Calorie Shrimp-and-Water-Chestnut Salad
with Dill Dressing

Sliced Tomatoes, Sliced Raw Mushrooms
*Pumpernickel Melba Toast
Honeydew Melon with Chopped Mint

ROSEMARY EGGS IN ASPIC

DEVILED EGGS: ASPIC:

4 eggs 2 envelopes unflavored gelatin

14 cup mayonnaise 14 cup water

14 teaspoon Salt 3 cups chicken broth

14 teaspoon onion juice 3 tablespoons lemon juice

14 teaspoon powdered 2 tablespoons white vinegar
rosemary 1 teaspoon onion juice

14 teaspoon dry mustard 1% teaspoon salt

3 drops yellow food coloring

14 cup chopped parsley
Hard-cook eggs. Cool. Shell and slice in half the long way.
Scoop out yolks, mash and mix well with mayonnaise, salt,
onion juice, rosemary and mustard. Fill the eggs, smoothing off
tops. Chill. Soften gelatin in water. Heat broth with lemon juice,
vinegar, onion juice, salt and food coloring. Add softened gela-
tin; stir and heat until it is dissolved. Chill aspic mixture unt
syrupy. Spoon about 44” in bottom of 8 custard dishes or small
molds. Chill until just set. Arrange eggs, filled side down, on top
of aspic. Fold parsley into remaining aspic, mix well, and spoon
over the eggs, filling dishes completely. Chill several hours until
set. Turn out onto greens, and serve with shrimp-and-water-
chestnut salad. Makes 6 to 8 servings (95 calories per serving).

LOW-CALORIE SHRIMP-AND-WATER-CHESTNUT SALAD

3 pounds cleaned and 2 teaspoons chopped fresh
deveined shrimp dill, or 1 teaspoon

1 tablespoon shrimp spice powdered

14 onion, peeled and sliced 1 small head romaine

1 can (5-0z.) water chest- lettuce, washed and
nuts, sliced chilled

4 teaspoon salt Parsley

14 cup plus 1 tablespoon 3 ripe tomatoes
bottled low-calorie 6 mushrooms

Italian-style dressing

Place shrimp in large pan or Dutch oven. Add shrimp spice,
which has been tied in a small piece CONTINUED ON PAGE 119

Above, left: Meaty chicken chunks and fruit dressed up in sour cream,
plus popovers, piping hot, make a meal well worth remembering.

Below, left: Bright as a spring garden, our Chef's Tongue-and-Veal Salad!
Its party dressing is a magical blend of herbs and nutmeg.

THE EGGS THAT CAME TO DINNER...

HANNA

Chere

nd enjoy €

happily with garden-fresh vegetables, sharp or
ild cheese, crisp bacon, fragrant herbs and
pices. Make a featherlight dinner omelet
bi stuffed with tender zucchini, tiny peas,
ered ‘en pepper and chopped pimiento.

W vory tomato ce.

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Eggs blend

wil

Note Geta

h crisp-lender vegetables—topped with a

Delight your family some evening soon with
a spectacular Florentine Egg Soufflé, high and
and Parmesan. Or

fluffy, fragrant with nutmeg

a creamy casserole of eggs, onions and mush-
a ~ ‘
rooms baked under a velvet-smooth Gruyere-
cheese-and-mustard sauce.

For perfect simplicity and goodness, nothing
equals freshly laid eggs scrambled the way the

generous ladling of basil-flavored tomato-and-mushroom sauce.

‘DONALD STUART

Basque people do—a golden “‘Piperade”’ with a
piquant seasoning of onions, tomatoes and

sweet red pepper, thyme and marjoram.
Equally appetizing and easy to make: Eggs
Casino with lemony hollandaise sauce. Serve
any of these delicious egg dishes with a crisp
salad and hot bread. Serve them with pride.
RECIPES ON PAGE 107

*Or 2 |b. chicken parts; thaw, if frozen.

MUSHROOM

Put chicken (skin-side down) in
baking dish (12 x 8 x 2”); pour 2
tbsp. melted butter over. Bake at
400°F. 20 min.; turn; bake 20
min. more. Stir 1 can Campbell’s
Cream of Mushroom Soup till
smooth. Top chicken with soup,
Y4 cup toasted slivered almonds.
Bake 20 min. 4 to 6 servings.

Put chicken (skin-side down) in
baking dish (12 x 8 x 2”); pour 2
tbsp. melted butter over. Bake at
400°F. for 20 min.; turn; bake 20
min. more. Pour 1 can Campbell’s
Tomato Soup over chicken;
sprinkle with 44 tsp. leaf oregano,
dash garlic powder. Bake 20 min.
more. 4 to 6 delicious servings.

CELERY

Put chicken (skin-side down) in
baking dish (12 x 8 x 2”); pour 2
tbsp. melted butter over. Bake at
400°F. for 20 min.; turn; bake 20
min. more. Stir 1 can Campbell’s
Cream of Celery Soup till smooth;
pour over chicken; sprinkle with
2 tbsp. chopped parsley. Bake 20
min. more. 4 to 6 souper servings.

NZ
a

NO HIDING PLACE
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 45

The little boy stood on tiptoe. “Hello,
daddy.”

‘“*Hi there, Benjy. How is everything?”

‘Everything is fine,” Benjy said. “Except I
don’t have a puppy dog yet.”

Sheilah took the receiver away. In the gloom
of the booth her face had a pale, new-moon
shine and her voice was excited as she said,
“Vera is going away for the weekend, daddy.”

“Vera? What’s this Vera business?”

“She wants me to call her that, except at
home,” Sheilah said with a soft laugh. “She
doesn’t want a big ten-year-old girl yelling
‘mommy’ at her on the street, she says.”

Her father said gently, ““‘Don’t you ever
stop calling me ‘daddy.’”

“Oh, I wouldn't, daddy,” she said, and drew
a resolute breath. “I was just thinking, since
mom is going away for the weekend, why can’t
Benjy and I come stay with you?”

There was a long pause before he asked,
“Did you speak to your mother about it?”

“She'd say no. We saw you just last Sunday,
she’d say.”

“Honey, there’s nothing I can do. The judge
says you're to stay with your mother and mind
what she says. But look, my vacation will be
coming up in August and I’ve persuaded your
mother to let you two spend a week of it with
me. I’ve been making plans. Did you know
that they have dude ranches even here in the
East, with horses to ride? I thought we might
go to one of those places for a week, the way
you're happy about horses.”

“

On. that would be suave!”’ Sheilah cried.
“I'd love that, daddy. Is it a promise?”

“It’s a promise,” he said.

“Couldn’t we see you this weekend and talk
about it?”

“IT have to fly out to Chicago,” he said. “‘I
have reservations late this afternoon, but I
could put the flight off until tomorrow. Sup-
pose I call your mother and see if you and
Benjy can have dinner with me tonight.”

“Yes, please do,” Sheilah said.

She stepped out of the telephone booth with
Benjy, and as they emerged into the sunlight
outside the store she was smiling. One thing
that always gave her a happy feeling was
horses. She loved them the way Benjy yearned
for a puppy dog. On her bureau she had a little
group of china horses her father had given her
for Christmas, and her best tenth birthday
present from him had been —— Oh, she had
meant to ask him about that scarf. She had
left it in the house at Grandkill last Sunday, in
the room that used to be hers. She had meant
to ask her father to send it to her.

She wore the scarf only on special occa-
sions, not every day here around the neighbor-
hood. It showed horses being ridden lickety-
split by men in red coats and there were some
hound dogs, and away down at the lower
right-hand corner was a merry little laughing
fox, having the time of his life.

Benjy was still holding her hand as she
turned in under the canopy at No. 62. Benjy
could barely reach the button for the twelfth
floor, but Sheilah always let him be the one to
push it. But just as Benjy was about to push,
Sheilah saw Miss Brush from 9-E coming.

“Well, kids,’ Miss Brush said, “‘isn’t this a
lovely Saturday?”

“Just fine,’ Sheilah said, and Benjy an-
nounced, as he proudly pushed the 9 button,
‘““Mommy’s going away for the weekend.”

“Then you be sure and come to see me,”
Miss Brush said.

“Oh, I guess we'll be going away too.”

Miss Brush’s first name was Lucille and she
worked on a newspaper. She was a pretty,
dark-haired girl who lived alone in 9-E and
she had a way of talking to kids as if she were
really interested.

Lucille Brush got off at nine and Benjy
pushed the 12 button. Sheilah had a key to the
apartment—it had been a proud moment
when her mother had first entrusted it to her.
She unlocked the door and at once she felt
the pinch of disappointment as she heard
Vera saying in a crisp voice on the telephone,
“Oh, Dll talk it over with you any time, but

what’s the point? I'll continue to handle it
in my own way, if you don’t mind, and if
you don’t like it you can always go tell it to
the judge.”

It was all off, Sheilah knew from the tone of
Vera’s voice. You never knew what to expect
from mom. One day she might say sure, why
not, and another day get mad about the very
same request. She hung up the telephone and
said, ““Sheilah, I’m disappointed in you, slip-
ping out and telephoning your father behind
my back. If you were so anxious to talk to him,
why didn’t you call him from here?”

“T didn’t think you’d mind, Vera.”

W hat I mind is your doing things behind
my back,” Vera said, and as Benjy slipped
away to the bedroom he shared with Sheilah,
she went on crossly, “It’s not as if I went away
every weekend and left you here moping. A girl
who works as hard as I do is entitled to some
relaxation, don’t you think? And I don’t think
I’m being unfair. You saw your father just last
Sunday, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry, mom,” Sheilah said miserably.
“T thought since you were going to be away,
anyhow, and ¥

“He doesn’t have any of the bother, any of
the responsibility,” Vera broke in. “‘He’s just
the big hero who steps in and gives you two a
gay time when life gets dull.”

“We just wanted to talk about vacation,”
Sheilah said. “‘He promised to take us to a
dude ranch.”

““Oh—horses,” Vera said slurringly. ““You
and your silly horses. You can just forget
about your horses. Maybe you won’t be going
to any dude ranch. Maybe I'll put my foot
down. And you’re not going out to dinner to-
night with anybody. You're having dinner
right here. It’s all arranged for Susan to come
in and take care of you and stay through to-
morrow, and you tell her there’s an envelope
for her on the table in the kitchen. I'll be home
by dinnertime tomorrow.”

“Yes, mommy,” Sheilah said.

Vera sighed, and said in a gentler tone,
“Honey, you’ve just got to understand how

afraid of dyes:

fed up with rinses:

LADIES’ HOME JOURI

things are. Aren’t there lots of kids at
school whose parents are divorced?”

Sheilah murmured, “*Yes, some.”

“And who do they live with?” Vera
manded, and added at once, “With t
mothers, of course. And I'll bet some of t
have got new fathers, haven’t they?”

“You mean stepfathers?”’ Sheilah asked

“And say,’ Vera went on, “‘why don’t
ever bring any of those kids home with yo

“School is out now,” Sheilah said. ““Mo
they’ve gone away for the summer.”

“After five months didn’t you make
friends in that schoo!? You never talk ab
them,” Vera said. “Oh, well, never mind.
along to your room if you want.”

It was a bitter agony to have no el
friends. When they had lived with daddy,
had been Peggy and Edith and Joanie
here in this new school she had never foun/
place for herself. She hesitated, studying |
mother’s face anxiously. “Are we going
have a stepfather, mommy?”

““Wouldn’t you expect I’d get married ag
one of these days?”’ Vera got suddenly to
feet with a little spreading of her hands t
invited appraisal of her full figure, her smog
face with its sulky red lips and expectant b
eyes, her shining blond hair. “It’s the no
natural thing. It happens every day of ©
week. It’s time you opened your eyes and g
living your private dream life.”

“Yes, mommy,” Sheilah said.

Vera shrugged. “I put three dollars there’
the table for the movies tonight, if Sus
wants to take you. She'll be in about f
o’clock and until then you take charge. Tz
Benjy out to the park.”

“Yes, mommy,” Sheilah said. :
Vera sighed. Her eyes looked tired. ““N’
you run along. It’s time I packed my bag.”

Sheilah moved obediently along the hall
the room she shared with Benjy. She fou
him on the lower of the two bunk beds, w
his face buried in the pillow. “‘What’s the
ter, Benjy?”

“T don’t want a new daddy,” Benjy said ii)
tearful voice. ““Do you?”

"Rh ze

|
Vy. 1962

‘}he took his hand and squeezed it, and she
¢ like crying too. The fear of having a step-
‘er had been growing on her, but she had no
1 who the man might be. Vera went out two
y hree nights a week, but nobody ever came
‘to the apartment; Vera never talked about
yom she went out with.
‘\bout a month ago there had been a sur-
se—a man had come to the door and mom
‘i said, “Kids, meet your Uncle Claude.
Bs just in off a ship.” Benjy had been very
ited about having a surprise uncle who was
Hiilor with a mermaid tattooed on his wrist,
v the man had been extra friendly. After Un-
‘) Claude had left, mommy had said she
n’t seen him in ever so long and she had
ished and said when they were kids she had
Shed him out of trouble in school by draw-
‘f pictures to please the teacher. Maybe she
uld thank Uncle Claude, she had said, for
ting her on the road to being a commercial
st and coming to New York City.

a came swiftly into the room, calling

- rfully, ‘““Kiddies, I have to run.’ She was
iring her brown raw-silk summer suit and
| lozenge-shaped amber beads and she
xed flushed and bright-eyed, as she gen-
ily did when she was going out; she always
i Sheilah the feeling that she was escaping
» some gay and different world.
Who are you going out with, mommy?”
jy asked.
First I’m going to have a little talk with
Wr father,” Vera said. ‘“‘Any message to
'B: to him, honey?”
Just remind him about the puppy dog.”
Now, Benjy,’ Vera began, then smiled and
ed his cheek. “Sure, I'll remind him.”
is she turned to Sheilah the girl impulsively
*w her arms around her mother’s neck.
A patted Sheilah’s head and said, ““Some-
Tis I think you're a better little mother than
mn. You watch out for Benjy, and hear his
ers tonight, remember.”
€ was gone in a rush, picking up her over-
t bag on the way, and there was a long
> of silence. At last Sheilah said, ‘Well, get

be’ eee

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up and we’ll go over to Washington Square
Park and skate.”
“OK,” Benjy said.

Paul Starr had canceled his plane reserva-
tion before he drove into New York to meet
Vera. Now he kept watch for her from a tele-
phone booth off the lobby of a small midtown
hotel as he put through a call to Arthur Landis
in Grandkill. Arthur was his boss and Paul
wanted to report his change of plans before
Arthur took off for a weekend in Washington.

Paul had intended to take his briefcase to
the seclusion of a hotel room in Chicago for a
Sunday of intensive preparation for his ap-
pointment Monday morning with a client. He
had decided to postpone the flight and talk to
Vera. Some way had to be found to ease the
strain on Sheilah. The divorce had been ac-
cepted by Benjy as something in the nature of
things, one of the mysteries of the adult
world, but in Sheilah it had exposed raw
nerves of the emotions.

A low, angry voice said in his ear, “Is it you
again?”

“Hello,” he said. ““Cora?”’

Cora Landis said with relief in her voice,
“Paul? I thought it was him again.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But he keeps call-
ing me. Just a little while ago I picked up the
telephone and there was nobody there. When
it rang this time I thought it was him again.”

Cora was a nervous, excitable woman. He
said soothingly, “It was probably just a wrong
number, Cora. Is Arthur there? Has he
started for Washington yet?”

“Yes, he put his golf clubs in his sports car
and started off ten minutes ago. I’m all alone
here with this telephone.”

He had sympathy for Cora, but just now
he had problems of his own. He said, “If you
should hear from Arthur will you please tell
him, in case he should try to call me in Chi-
cago, that I put off my flight until tomorrow.”

He left the telephone booth and made his
way slowly across the lobby. Vera at least had
agreed to talk with him, but a great deal de-

Spun Gold (Golden Blonde)

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pended on her mood of the moment. There
had been a time when he had considered her
changeable moods beguiling, but later he had
looked for the stability that is the foundation
of family life. He had failed to find it in Vera.
The wonder was how they had kept a jerry-
built marriage patched together for so long.

Hi. moved into the lounge. They had often
come here in the old days when he had been
fresh out of Dartmouth and writing copy for
Fuller & Smythe and she had been making her
way as a free-lance commercial artist. She had
a small talent, and the wits to make the most
of it, but what she really wanted in life he did
not know even now. Her father had been a
small-town hardware dealer near Biloxi, Mis-
sissippi, who had treated his two children as
part of his inventory and given them few
advantages and less love. Vera’s brother,
Claude, had found his outlet in rebellion that
had been noted on more than one police blot-
ter. Vera had run away from home to make
her way in the world, and Paul had admired
her for it. He now knew that for Vera he had
been an experiment in life, but he had been an
adult and supposedly able to take care of him-
self. With Sheilah and Benjy it was different.
He felt a sense of aching and frustrated re-
sponsibility for the kids. But he could do
nothing without Vera’s help.

He saw her coming at last, carrying a small
blue overnight case. At thirty-two she had not
lost her looks. As he rose to meet her she said
“Hi” and dropped into a chair. “I’ve only got
a minute, Paul.”

“Can’t we just relax and talk this over? ’'m
concerned about Sheilah. She doesn’t seem to
be making a good adjustment.”

“Don’t worry about Sheilah. She’s smart.”

“She needs help, Vera. I thought if we talked
it over, we might figure out something to ease
the situation.”

“Such as Sheilah coming back to you?” she
asked.

He shook his head. “‘No, I think Sheilah
should be with Benjy. He needs her. But I
think it should be arranged for me to see them

Bamboo (Medium Ash Blonde)

more frequently and on an established and
permanent basis. The children need it.”

““Now, look, Paul,’ Vera said firmly, “those
children are in my custody and I’m their
mother. I have a point to make myself. You’re
too indulgent with those kids. I don’t think
spending a week with you on a dude ranch is
going to help. We really ought to call that off.”

“Oh, no,” he protested. ““Sheilah’s heart is
set on it, Vera, and I promised.”

““Whenever they see you they are unhappy
all the next day,” Vera said. “I want them to
see their father. I want to be fair. But after this
dude-ranch excursion I think once a month
would be enough, since you want an estab-
lished basis.”’ She added, ““The decree becomes
final next week, you know.”

“Yes, | know that,” he said.

She glanced at her wristwatch, made a move
to rise. “Is that all you had to say?”

He shook his head. ““They need their father,
Vera, and I need them. We must work out
something better than once-a-month visits.
We can find a better solution than that, Vera.”

She gave him an alert glance as the thought
struck her. ““You mean between us—you and
me?”’

He had not meant that at all, but he felt a
thump of his heart that took him by surprise.
He smiled and said, “Id be willing to give it
another try.”

“Oh, Paul, it’s all washed up.” She gave a
low, harsh laugh. “We spent eleven long years
together. All that is over. ’ve got what I want
now—almost. I’m free, I’m reasonably happy.
As for the kids, don’t worry. I don’t think ’'m
too bad a mother.”

“‘T never meant to imply you were,” he said.

“So that’s that,” she said.

He nodded. “I gather you’ve found another
guy.”

““Maybe,” she said.
another girl?”

“No, not yet.”

“But you will.’’ She studied him, her eyes
narrowed a little. He was a tall, spare man; at
thirty-three he had put on no extra flesh and
he still had the alert and friendly eyes, the

“Haven’t you found

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open smile that had first attracted her. She
smiled and said, ‘**You’re a handsome, success-
ful man, Paul. V’ll give you about six months
before somebody lands you.”

She had been right that it would be a waste
of breath, he thought. There was no solution
short of legal action, and a bitter litigation
over custody would do the kids no good. She
would marry again and undoubtedly so would
he in time, and Sheilah and Benjy would have
to make their own adjustments. He had
wanted to find some way to help, to smooth
the way, but it seemed hopeless.

“How are Arthur and Cora?” Vera asked
in a conversational tone that closed the sub-
ject. “Do you see much of them?”

“Arthur is my boss,” he said. “I see him
nearly every day.”

“I meant Cora and the rest of the crowd out
at Grandkill, actually.”

If he could put his finger on any one specific
turning point in their marriage, he thought, it
would be buying the house in Rockland
County. Arthur and Cora Landis had found
them a bargain in Grandkill, a few miles from
the Landis’s estate on the Hudson. But after
the first enthusiasm of owning a house, Vera
had lost interest. Her restless nature demanded
excitement, she had felt stifled in the country.
She had resumed her artwork and made it her
excuse for frequent trips to New York, often
staying in town overnight. In the end divorce
had been inevitable.

“Cora called me up for lunch last week,”
Vera said. “I don’t know why. We were never
really close. In fact, you can have any of that
crowd up there, except maybe Arthur. He
knows what he wants, and I like a man who
goes after what he wants. Remember when it
was his big ambition to get his key to the exec-
utives’ washroom at Fuller and Smythe? Well,
he got it and now he’s a partner. It’s Fuller,
Smythe and Landis.”

She knew very well that it was Cora’s money
that had enabled Arthur to buy into the firm,
Paul thought. It jarred him to think that Ar-
thur’s marriage to Cora, based on opportun-
ism and uncomplicated by children, had suc-
ceeded, while his marriage to Vera had failed.
As always, it was the innocent who suffered; it
was Sheilah and Benjy who had been uprooted.

“Td better grab a taxi and run,” Vera said.

“IT can drop you off,” he suggested. “‘My
car is just across the street.”

“Curious where I’m going, Paul?” she said.
“IT think you'd really be surprised. Suppose
you just let me off in the neighborhood of
Grand Central, if you’re headed that way.”

He picked up her overnight bag and fol-
lowed her out to the street. There she turned
with a quick smile.and said, ““Want some good
advice, Paul? Get married again, but pick out
somebody you can handle, somebody who
won't walk all over you.”

It was the sort of candor he had once found
refreshing in Vera. A moment ago he had felt
a surprising thump of his heart, but what he
felt now was a positive and bitter dislike that
was close to hatred.

Susan didn’t want to go to the movies that
night. She was tired. After dinner she snored
in a big armchair in front of the television
set. When Benjy’s bedtime came Sheilah
heard his prayers, and Susan was still snoring
when the telephone rang.

It was Vera, saying in a husky voice, “Hi
there, kid. I’m sorry I was cross today.”’

“That’s all right, mommy,” Sheilah said.

“Everything OK? Susan showed up all
right?”

“Yes, she’s here. Where are you?”

Vera laughed gaily. “Honey, I’m in a big
hotel. I look out the window and see the
Atlantic Ocean. Someday I'll bring you down
to Atlantic City. You'll love it. We'll get the
same room, and do you know why? Because
it’s your lucky numbers. Room Two Twenty-
two.”

“Two, two two,” Sheilah said. ‘“‘That does
sound lucky.”

As Sheilah hung up she saw that Susan had
awakened. The latter insisted Sheilah go
straight to bed.

The next day was Sunday and it rained.
Sheilah amused herself, as she often did, by
going through what Vera called her “swipes” —

photographs cut from magazines, drawings,
etchings, prints, all sorts of pictures that pro-
vided ideas when Vera needed a background
for a drawing. It was fun for Sheilah. Last time
she had looked at them there had been a
package down at the bottom of the carved-
oak chest, but it was gone now. She had hoped
it was a present for her or for Benjy, but she
guessed not.

After lunch Benjy went with his little red
dump truck to visit Lucille Brush in 9-E. She
was always pleased when the little boy dropped
in. Benjy brought an illusion of family life to
her small apartment.

Every Sunday she set up her portable type-
writer on a card table and wrote a letter to her

REM RS SSP CS AY

FOXGLOVES

By DIONIS COFFIN RIGGS

“You've been waiting a long time
For me to patch that shingling,
But | was busy. Still am, in fact.
| came today
Because | saw your flowers
Through the gate."

“The foxgloves?”’

“Yes. My grandmother
Used to grow that kind,
And when | went to see her,
As a little fellow, | would pinch
The foxglove tips together tight,
With a bee inside, to hear him buzz.
‘Look out, Dan’l,’ she told me,
‘one day
You'll get stung!’ And she was
right.””

“And those are pleasant
memories?”

“Yes, in spite of the bee sting.
Perhaps because of it."

“Haven't you
Ever grown foxgloves?”’

“Yes. | did have quite a garden.
But Jennie’s mother
Put in her plants along with mine,
So | gave up. A man
Likes to hoe his own flowers
When he feels like it,
Or when he can.”

mother in Pennsylvania, and now, as Benjy
pushed his little red truck on the floor nearby,
she typed: “I had two by-lines this week.
Nothing big, of course, but very satisfying
nonetheless to a girl only four years out of
journalism school.”

“That’s a big N,”’ Benjy said, at her shoulder.

“Oh, you know the letters?”

“T know the big ones,” he said. ‘“‘That’s a Y.”

“That’s right,” she said. ““‘What are you
playing?”

““Snaqw removal.”

“It’s a nice, warm time of year for it,’’ she
said, and laughed softly. ““Well, see to it you
scoop up every speck of snow.”

“I’m done now,” he said. ““Type some more.
My daddy types too. He smokes a pipe and
whistles through his teeth, all at the same

* time.”

‘“He must be quite a fellow,’ Lucille said.

“But I guess I’m going to have a new
daddy,” he said.

“Really, Benjy? Who?”

““Nobody told me who.”

“Then what makes you think you will?”

“T heard Shee and mommy talking.”

She put her arm around his shoulders,
hugged him, and said gently, ‘““Then you'll
have two daddies, Benjy.”

He considered this very seriously, but did
not speak and Lucille pushed the table aside

and said, ‘Suppose I get a deck of cards and
we'll play fish. Want to?”

At half past three Susan telephoned, and
Lucille sent Benjy up to 12-B. Vera was due
home at four and Susan waited until five
minutes past the hour. As she let herself out
the door she said, ““You can tell your mother
I said you both behaved real nice.” Five
o’clock came, and six, and still no Vera. It was
well past seven when Sheilah cooked ham-
burgers for them both. Benjy gave Sheilah a
very tight hug when she tucked him in and
went to sleep with his fuzzy toy monkey cud-
dled close.

Sheilah was awakened by sunlight in her
eyes. She sat upright with sudden alarm and
saw Benjy at the door in his pajamas, with his
hair tousled and his underlip stuck out the
way it did when he was disturbed. ““Mommy
didn’t come home yet.”

“You hungry?” Sheilah said. “Tl fix break-
fast.”

Cereal was all Benjy wanted. After a few
mouthfuls he put his spoon down and said
plaintively, “She said just one night, but it’s
been two and she’s not home even yer.”

“We'll hear from her pretty soon.”

Bu no word came. Sheilah did not want
Benjy to know that she was worried, too, and
she waited until he had gone to the bedroom
to dress before she telephoned her father’s
office. She had forgotten—he was in Chicago.

““No, no message,” Sheilah said.

She kept herself busy washing the dishes and
putting them away. Benjy was restless and
wanted to go out to the park, but Sheilah said
they had better wait until mom came home.

“But we stayed home all day yesterday,”
Benjy complained. ‘“‘And I don’t even have a
comic book, Shee.”

“T tell you what. V’ll run down to Mr.
Hyman’s store and get you a surprise. I owe
him a quarter, I remember. You stay here in
case the telephone rings.”

It was after ten o’clock when Sheilah went
out to Mr. Hyman’s store—time the first
editions of the afternoon newspapers were
coming up—and Mr. Hyman was arranging a
stack on the stand in front of his store. Sheilah
was not there long—only long enough to pick
out a little toy dog that walked for Benjy and
pay back the quarter loan and pause at the
newsstand where a headline caught her eye. It
was while she was gone that two men came
to the door of 12-B and rang the bell. Benjy
opened the door.

“Is your father home, sonny?” one of them
asked.

Benjy shook his head. The man had a nice
smile, and he let his hand rest for an instant on
Benjy’s shoulder. He took it away again and
asked, ‘““What’s your name, son?”

“Benjy.”

““Well, you can call me Frank and this is my
partner, Nick. Can you tell us how to get in
touch with your daddy?”

Benjy pointed to the telephone. The man
named Frank asked, “Do you know his
number?”

“Shee knows it,’ Benjy said.

““Who’s she?”

‘My sister Sheilah,”’ Benjy said. “She went
out to Mr. Hyman’s store to get me a surprise,
but she’s coming right back.”

“OK, we'll wait for her,” the man said.
“It’s important for us to talk to your father.
When did you see him last?”

“Oh, a while ago,” Benjy said. “We took a
ride in his car.”

Nick had been looking through mommy’s
address book that she kept on the telephone
stand and now he asked, “What does your
mother do, sonny? Does she work?”

“She draws pictures,”’ Benjy said.

“An artist?” It was Frank talking now.
“What sort of pictures does she draw?”

“People and things,’ Benjy said.

The two men kept moving around. They
looked at everything, and one of them had
opened the chest where mommy kept her
swipes and was looking inside when a wild
voice cried, ‘Don’t you touch that!” It was
Shee, who had come bursting into the room
with her eyes big and shiny and her face white.
She ran to Benjy and put one arm protectively
around him and then she looked up and asked
fiercely, “What are you doing here?”

LADIES’ HOME JOURN

“Sorry, kid,’ the man named Frank sa
“Benjy let us in and we were waiting for ye
We want to find your father.”

“Who are you?” i

“We're policemen, Sheilah—detectives. I
Detective Luther and this is Nick Arbelli.”

“My daddy hasn’t done anything,” Sheil
said in a low, frightened voice.

“Of course not, honey,” Frank Luther sa
gently. “We just want to talk to him.
is he?”

““He’s out in Chicago,” Sheilah said “¥
won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“Have you any relatives in town?
aunts or uncles, for instance?”

““We have an Uncle Claude,” Sheilah sai
“but I guess he’s on his ship somewhere. He
a sailor.”

“What would his full name be?”

“Claude Boggs.”

“Isn’t there anybody else?”

Sheilah shook her head.

“Do you know how we can get in tou
with your father in Chicago?”

“You can call his office and ask them
Sheilah said. “It’s Fuller, Smythe and Land
He’s an advertising man.”

“Better ring the squad, Frank,’ Arbe
said. “Tell °em to send a policewoman over

“Yeah, I guess,’ Frank said.

“If he’s in Chicago, the children’s shelt
is the best place until he shows.”

Frank nodded, but looked again at Sheila
“T tell you what,” he said. “I’m going to
and get in touch with your daddy, but ma
while I want you to pack a bag for you and t
boy. We know a nice place for you to sté
They’ll treat you fine.”

Sheilah took Benjy’s hand without a wo
and led him along the hall to their bedrooy
She shut the door and then she threw hers¢
down on the unmade lower bunk and buri
her face in the pillow. Sobs shook her. Ben
was scared. ““What’s the matter, Shee?”

She jumped to her feet and caught his wr
so hard it hurt. “Run look in the hall clos
and bring me the skate bag,” she whispere
“You know where it is. Hurry!”

Benjy didn’t say he wasn’t interested
skating; he looked into her eyes and nodd
and turned away. By the time he returned wi
the duffel bag containing both pairs of skat
Sheilah had laid out a clean shirt and shor
for him and had brought their toothbrush}-
and toothpaste, wrapped in a hand tow#
from the bathroom. She stuffed them into t)
bag on top of the skates and found she cou
also squeeze in sweaters for both of them. T
last thing she put in was a plump little p
containing twenty-eight two-dollar bills, th
she closed the bag and pulled the zipper.

“Shee, where are we going?’’ Benjy aske

““We’re going to scoot out of here,”’ she sai

“But why, Shee?”

Ye don’t want to go to jail, do you’
Benjy stared at her with his mouth ope}
really terrified, and she said, “That’s what t!
children’s shelter is—it’s jail. Didn’t you he}
them say they were getting a policewoma)
She’ll take us there and they’ll lock us in
room and ask us questions. That’s why we’
going to scoot.”

“To find mommy ?”

“Just scoot, that’s all,’ Sheilah said.

“To daddy, then?”

“Now just listen, please,” Sheilah said, wi)
an expression of fierce concentration. ‘“Where
your toy dump truck? Didn’t you leave,
down at Miss Brush’s yesterday?”

“TI guess I did:”*

“I’m going to take this bag and put it int
hall and then I’m coming straight back in
Sheilah said. ‘‘The minute you see me car
back you say you left your toy truck down
Nine-E and you’ve got to have it. They'll ]]
you go. You pick up the bag and go down o:
flight and push the button to bring the elevat
up. You got it? Then I'll say I'd better go ke:
an eye on you and we’ll jump in the elevat
and go down to the basement and out throu;
the service entrance so nobody will see us

Benjy could not begin to understand, ai
he had a feeling of panicky insecurity, ma
more frightening because he depended
Shee and he had never seen her like th)

CONTINUED ON PAGE |

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 78

before, with her eyes shining so oddly. She
picked up the skate bag, said, ‘Remember
what I told you,” and walked into the living
room. Detective Luther was talking on the
telephone and the other man was looking
through Vera’s swipes.

“Hey, where are you going?” Frank Luther
called as Sheilah crossed to the door.

“T’m just putting this bag in the hall, where
I won’t forget it,’ Sheilah explained.

The detective’s eyes followed her to the
door. She put the bag down and returned at
once. Benjy had come into the living room.

He said, “My little truck. I left it down in
Nine-E.”

“You'd better run get it, then,” she said,
and explained to the detective, ‘He wants his
toy truck. He’ll be right back.’ She sat down
on the sofa with her hands in her lap, folded
primly, but gripping tightly.

“IT just talked to your father’s office,”
Frank Luther said. ‘“He didn’t show up for an
appointment with his client out in Chicago and
he isn’t registered at the hotel where his
secretary thought he’d be staying, but we'll
get in touch. I guess your little brother can
find his way all right?”

““Maybe I'd better run along after him.”

“You do that,’ Detective Luther said, and
started dialing another number.

Sheilah walked casually to the door. Once
she was out of sight she bolted down the
stairs. Benjy was waiting on the floor below
and the elevator stood ready, with its doors
open. She caught his hand and pulled him in,
taking the skate bag. No one saw them emerge
from the service entrance. They walked
quickly to the corner. The last one to see them
was Mr. Hyman, who stood at the door of his
shop, where the afternoon newspapers were
on display.

Mr. Hyman had not yet read the early
editions, but even if he had he would have
found no significance in the story of brutal,
senseless tragedy that was reported on Page |
under the headline: WOMAN MUGGED IN Riv-
ERSIDE PARK. He had noticed that Sheilah had
stood looking at the newspapers. He had seen
her drop the paper bag that contained the
toy dog for Benjy and then she had picked it
up again, and turned away with a strange,
frozen expression on her face. She had moved
toward the corner with a stumbling, swaying
walk, and then she had started running.

Mr. Hyman had not read the story that
told of an unidentified woman found at dawn
strangled with her own scarf, a silk scarf that
had a gay design of fox hunters and hounds
chasing a little laughing fox. Even if he had
read the story it would have had no personal
meaning. Only Sheilah knew that the scarf
was hers. And only Sheilah knew that she had
left it in her father’s house up across the
Hudson River in Grandkill.

Deere Luther realized that the children
had been gone for some time. He walked down
three flights and rang the bell at the door of
9-E. Lucille had just finished dressing when
the buzzer sounded. To Detective Luther she
seemed a very pretty girl.

“Vm looking for a couple of kids,” he said.
“Benjy and Sheilah Starr.”

“I haven’t seen them this morning.”

“Maybe I have the wrong apartment num-
ber. I guess he left his little toy truck some-
where else.”

“No, I think his truck is here,’ she said.
“He was playing with it yesterday afternoon.
Why? Who are you and what do you want
with Sheilah and Benjy? You’re not Mr. Starr,
are you?”

“No,” he said. “I’m a police detective,
miss.”’ He showed his blue-and-gold shield.
“Detective Frank Luther of the Homicide
Squad.” ;

“The Homicide Squad? Are the children all
right?”

“They’re all right.”

“It’s that Riverside Drive case,” she said
positively, with the finality of shock. ““When
I heard it on the radio I had a premonition.
Was that woman Mrs. Starr?”

“You sure jump to conclusions, miss.”

“T heard the description of the scarf she was
strangled with and it fits exactly a scarf I’ve

seen little Sheilah wearing.’’ She made a soft,
troubled sound. “Is it positive?’

“They found her pocketbook, with her
identification in it. My partner and I came
over here to check.”

“You said you were looking for Sheilah and
Benjy—weren’t they home?”

‘“That’s just the point, miss. They disap-
peared.”

“You mean they were left alone overnight?”
she said in distress. “‘But they had a sitter who
was supposed to stay until Mrs. Starr came
home.”

“T’ve always done things
the hard way...

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“Lady, they’re all right,” he said patiently.
“IT was talking to them fifteen minutes ago.
We couldn’t locate Mr. Starr—he’s out in
Chicago—and we were going to send them
over to the children’s shelter, but they sneaked
out on us.”

“IT hope you didn’t just walk in there and
tell them their mother had been killed,”
Lucille said, with a glance that made the
detective feel abashed.

“They don’t know. To tell you the truth, I
figured I'd leave it to the policewoman when
she gets here.”

“They shouldn’t hear it from the police,”
Lucille said.

“The police are human, too, miss,”’ he said.
“Believe me, I feel pretty bad about this.”

“| think you’d better let me tell the children.
Let me take care of them until their father
comes.’ She could not keep her voice steady.
“The little boy and I are good friends.”

“The question is, where are they?” he said.
“Do they have any other friends in the build-
ing?”

She shook her head. “‘They’re solitary chil-
dren. Their mother kept to herself too.”

“But she was pretty popular with the fellows,
wasn’t she?”

Lucille shook her head. ‘I don’t know.”

“The doorman said she went out pretty
often and he mentioned a tallish blond guy.
Do you know who he is?”

“What does her personal life have to do
with it? She was mugged, wasn’t she? That
can happen to anybody.”

“She wasn’t mugged in the ordinary sense
of the word, miss,”’ he said. ““That’s the reason
for the questions. You'll be hearing it on the
radio next newscast, probably. She was killed
somewhere else, as early as last Saturday night,
and transported to where we found her, prob-
ably in the back of a car. She was dumped
over the wall into Riverside Park and then her
handbag was tossed into the bushes so we’d
find it and think it was a mugging. But we
know now it was murder.”

Her gray eyes met his. ““How do you know
that?”

I take the medical examiner’s word for it,”
he said. Postmortem lividity had been the
giveaway. The woman had been lying on her
side after she was killed, and after the heart
stopped beating gravity had pulled the blood
down and discolored the skin. The woman had
been found lying on her side in the park, but
the lividity had been on the wrong side—the
up side. But Detective Luther did not tell the
girl this. He only said, ““Want to come up to
Twelve-B with me? Maybe the kids have
turned up. Except one thing does make me
wonder. The little girl packed a bag and that’s
gone too. They may have ducked out.”

“They must be frightened half to death,”
Lucille said. ““Poor darlings, they ran away to
their father. That’s where they’ve gone.”

“They know he’s out in Chicago,” the de-
tective said.

The children were not in 12-B.

Nick Arbelli said, ““The lieutenant called.
We got to run down the names of every guy in
this address book. The woman left here Satur-
day afternoon carrying an overnight bag, the
doorman said. Where was she all that time,
and what happened to that bag? Where did
she go? Who was with her?”

“IT suppose Sheilah knows,” Frank Luther
said. “I was working up to asking her when
she cut out.” He turned to Lucille. “You men-
tioned there was a sitter.”

“She’s a cleaning woman who works for
me, too,” Lucille explained. “She reports in at
half past twelve—I’ll send her up to see you.”

She turned away and walked slowly to the
elevator. She must find Sheilah and Benjy and
keep them until word came from their father.
But where to look? The first stop she made
was at the corner stationery store.

“Yes, I saw Sheilah and Benjy a little while
ago,’ Mr. Hyman said. ““They were walking
toward the square with that bag they carry
their skates in. Why, Miss Brush? Anything
wrong?”

“Look on page one, Mr. Hyman,” she said.
“That woman mugged in Riverside Park this
morning was Mrs. Starr.”

“Oh, no,” he said, and his face looked
stricken. “The poor little girl—I saw her
there by the stand looking at a newspaper.
She dropped her package and then after a
minute she started running.”

“That means she knows,” Lucille said. ““But
she kept it to herself.”

“How would she know?” asked Mr. Hy-
man. “I saw the story. It didn’t give Mrs.
Starr’s name. She was unidentified.”

Lucille walked on. She could not bring
herself to explain about the scarf. Since they
had taken their skate bag with them it was
possible that the children had gone to Wash-
ington Square Park to skate, she thought, but
she doubted it. She walked around the park
and looked along the neighboring streets, but
saw neither child. She walked quickly back to
No. 62 and took the elevator to the twelfth
floor. The door to 12-B stood open and she
saw the two detectives inside, one of them still
reading Vera’s mail. Policemen were callous
to tragedy, she thought, and she understood

LADIES’ HOME JOUR

it. Newspaper work was often much the sg
you had to make it a rule not to get per
ally involved. But she was involved now
way that wrung her heart. Those poor, lo
frightened babies, she thought.

The two detectives were not alone. Y
them was a third man, a thickset, eles
looking man with black hair, intense dark
and a small black mustache. As she ent
the apartment he was saying, “I got Mr.§
on the telephone in Chicago, at the offie
our client there, not ten minutes ago. He di
take a plane out until this morning and it
held up at Idlewild by engine trouble, s
didn’t show up on time for his appointn
The client called us here in New York to
why not. But he finally got there, quité
late, and he’s catching the next jet back.4

Frank Luther turned his head. “Any Iie

Miss Brush?”

“INone

““Well, maybe they did go looking fort
father,” he said. ““Miss Brush, this is
Arthur Landis, of Fuller, Smythe and
Mr. Starr’s employer.”

Lucille said, “How do you do.” Artf
Landis looked her over with an eye that
apparently conditioned to appraising yo
women, even when his mind was on somett
else, for he went on talking to the detec
“What has happened to the kids? I camed
here to get them and take care of them
Mr. Starr gets home. He asked me to.”

“We'll find them,” Frank Luther sai
“Miss Brush has the idea they may f
started up to their father’s place.”

“Of course,” Arthur Landis said. “I'll
my wife and have her run over to Mr. Ste
house and stand by.”

“You live near there?” Frank asked.

“Just a few miles away.”

“Then you knew Vera Starr, I take it?

“Yes, for many years—since they ¥
married.”

“Then maybe you can tell me, Mr. Lam
did she have any special boy friends?”

Arthur Landis pursed his lips in thou
“Well, we haven’t seen much of her since
divorce. Naturally I don’t know whom
may have picked up with.”

“Do you happen to know anything ab
a tallish blond guy she went out with?”

Arthur Landis shook his head.

“She went off for the weekend, carrying
overnight bag,’ Frank said. ““We don’t kr
where, or who with.”

“Couldn’t the children help? Didn’t t
mother tell them where she was going?”

“We never got around to asking them
fore they ran out. Maybe Sheilah knows.

Acie Landis nodded, his dark eyes
specting Lucille again. Frank said, “But ]
curious about Mr. Paul Starr. Tell me ak
that divorce. Was there any bitterness—a
thing like that?”

Arthur Landis seemed to hesitate before
said, ““No, I’d say not.”

“Was it a friendly divorce?”

“Paul didn’t contest, on the understan¢
that they would share the kids on an equita
basis, but her lawyer wrote him out o
legally and I guess there was a little frict
over that. I guess there’s no such thing a
truly friendly divorce.”

“So Mr. Starr was bitter about it?”

“He’s not the bitter kind. But I supp
that divorce did knock him for a loop.”

“You wouldn’t call him a violent m
then?” Frank Luther asked. *

“Violent? Oh, see here, if you’re think
Paul had anything to do with Vera’s —— ¢
no, that’s out of the question.” }

But there seemed to be a false note in
voice, Lucille thought, and his eyes shif
away. Deeply troubled, she walked down’
three flights to her apartment. In the liv
room of 9-E the shaft of sunlight had pe
trated farther and sought out in a corne
glint of bright red—the little dump truck t
belonged to Benjy. He had put a load
powdered sugar in it—poured from a canis
at home, probably. It brought tears to her &
as she remembered how the boy had bi
playing snow removal yesterday; that was ¥
he had put the sugar in his truck. Two hea

CONTINUED ON PAGE

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 80

storms during the past winter had made an
impression on his six-year-old mind, and he
had loved to watch the Department of Sanita-
tion trucks loading snow and carting it away
to the river. The sugar in his truck must have
been dumped and redumped many times, for
it was now the sooty color of snow in New
York the second day after a snowfall.

The buzzer sounded and she went quickly
to the door and opened it. Arthur Landis
smiled agreeably. ““The detectives told me you
know those children pretty well, Miss Brush.”

“Yes, particularly Benjy.”

“If you see them or hear from them Id ap-
preciate it if you’d bring them to my office or
to Grandkill—to Paul’s place. I'll foot the taxi
bills, of course. The point is, those detectives
must have scared the kids pretty badly and I
don’t want them in the hands of the police
again.”

“T agree,” Lucille said. “If I find them Ill
call you.”

She closed the door and went at once to
the telephone, dialed the number of the
Record-Star, and asked for the city desk. To
Bob Stout, the day city editor, she said, “Bob,
you have the story of the woman who was
murdered up on Riverside Drive, of course.
She lived here in my building and I knew her
slightly, so please assign me to that story.”

He said, ““You’re down for a women’s-club
meeting this afternoon.”

“Listen, Bob,” she said earnestly, ‘‘she had
two adorable kids, Sheilah and Benjy, and
they’ve disappeared.” Hearing a noise at the
door, she turned quickly, but it was Susan,
letting herself in with her key. Lucille waved
and went on, “Those Homicide detectives
frightened them and they ran away.”

The genuine distress in her voice came
through, and he said quickly, “Sure, you fol-
low through on the kids, Lucille, and write us
a side feature, but George Tompkins will
handle the main story.”

As Lucille flew to a closet for a dress Susan
asked, ““What was it you were saying on the
telephone, Miss Brush? What happened?”

“Susan, you should have stayed and waited
for Mrs. Starr yesterday,” Lucille said severely.

“She paid me just*to four o’clock and told
me to go home then,” Susan said.

“Do you know where she went for the
weekend?”

““No’m, she didn’t say.”’

“Didn’t you hear from her at all? Didn’t she
call to see how the children were?”

“Oh, yes, there was a call late Saturday
night. Sheilah answered it. I didn’t talk to
Mrs. Starr. Miss Brush, what happened?”

“Then Sheilah must know where her mother
went,”’ Lucille said. ““Didn’t she tell you?”

“I heard her asking her mom where she
was, but Sheilah didn’t tell me. It was past
her bedtime, so I sent her straight off to bed.”

“But you heard her talking on the tele-
phone?”

I did hear her say that something was just
too, too,’ Susan said. “You know how she
talks. It was just too, too, too lucky—some-
thing like that. Miss Brush, please tell me.
Is Mrs. Starr the dead lady in the paper?”

Lucille slipped the dress over her head,
smoothed it and said quietly, ““Yes, she’s the
dead lady, Susan.”

Susan’s eyes opened wide.

“There are some detectives up in her apart-
ment who want to talk to you.”

{ don’t know a thing,’’ Susan said, and
pursed her lips sadly. ““Them poor babies.
\V/nere are they, Miss Brush?’’

“T have an idea they ran away to their
father,” Lucille said.

Susan nodded, and delivered the first
critical opinion Lucille had ever heard from
her. “That’s where they belong,” she said,
“with their daddy.”

Paul Starr thanked God for jet travel. He

had moved in a daze of disbelief after the call
from Arthur Landis came through to Chicago,
and he had raced to the airport just in time to
board the next jet flight to New York. Arthur
had promised he would take charge of the
children, and by now they would be with

Cora, but Paul wanted to reach them as fast

as he possibly could and take them in his arms
and assure them that he would take care of
them from now on. But the tragedy of Vera
was their tragedy too.

The plane taxied to the terminal and he was
first out. He went to a telephone booth and
gave the operator the number of the Landis
home. A maid answered.

“Mrs. Landis isn’t home, sir. There’s no-
body here.”

He gave the operator his own number in
Grandkill, but there was no answer. Then he
tried Vera’s number, thinking that the chil-
dren must still be in the apartment. A man’s
voice answered, “Detective Luther.”

“This is Paul Starr. I’m calling about Sheilah
and Benjy.”

“No word yet, Mr. Starr,’’ the man said in
an apologetic tone.

“No word? What do you mean, no word?”

“Well, we haven’t found them yet.”

“Haven't found them?” Paul cried. “What
does that mean? What happened?”

QUEBEC MAY

By EARLE BIRNEY

Now the snow is vanished clean,

Bo’ jour, Pierre, ’ca va?
Skyward point the cedar billows,
Birches pinken, poplars green,
Magenta runs the surnac tine
Pouring down the hills like wine.
Yellow catkins on the willows,
Yellow calico on line.

‘Allo, Marie, 'ca va?

Even Telesphore is frisky,
Vieux Telesphore, hola!
Feels the blood in shank and
hand,
Sees the creek brim brown as
whiskey.
Last old snowbank dies by stack,
Last sick isle of ice on lac.
Racing on the springing land,
Petite Jeanne in wake of
Jacques,
Hi ya, Jeanne, hi ya!

The detective explained about Sheilah and
Benjy disappearing. ‘““There’s a lady here in
the building who thinks they may have started
out for your house.”

Paul said, “Vll go straight home.”

“The state police up there are checking,”
Detective Luther said. “Say, Mr. Starr, Mr.
Arthur Landis was here and he said you
didn’t fly out to Chicago until this morning,
kind of late for your appointment. I’m won-
dering if you saw Mrs. Starr over the weekend
or if you know where she went.”

“‘T have no idea where she went,” Paul said.
“Why?”

“She had an overnight bag, the doorman
says, so she must have gone out of town, or
to a hotel here. If we just knew where—I’m
hoping Sheilah can tell us. The sitter said she
talked to her mother on the telephone Satur-
day night.”

“Why is it important?”

“She wasn’t mugged as first reports made
it,’ Detective Luther said. “She was mur-
dered, Mr. Starr.’ Hearing no response at the
other end of the line, he went on, ““So we want
to. know who she was with over the week-
end—who the guy was.”’

*“We were divorced. I never pried into her
private life.” Paul hung up, stumbled out of
the booth and hurried to the parking area for
his car. Surely the children had gone to Grand-
kill. But when he came at last to the gravel
drive that led to his one-story white house in
the woods, his heart sank. It was obviously
shut up tight; the children were not here. But
standing in the turnaround area was a New
York City taxicab, and a young woman was
on the porch, peering in a window. She turned

— ...lUl|!lU.l._ rrr

and he saw an alert, oval face and serious gray
eyes.

As he got out of the car she called, “Are
you Mr. Starr?”

PMS

“Your telephone has been ringing. It just
stopped.”

“It must have been the kids,”’ he said.

“The state police passed by a few minutes
ago and told me there was no news yet,”’ she
said. “I’m Lucille Brush—the New York
Record-Star.”

“Sorry, I have nothing to say.”’ He started
to move past her.

ie been looking for Sheilah and Benjy,”
she said. “I live in the same building and I
know them. Benjy and I are pretty good pals.”

“Oh,” he said, stopping short, “you must
be the girl I’ve heard them talk about— Miss
Brush?”

She nodded. “I’ve been looking for them as
their friend, but I’m a newspaper reporter,
too, Mr. Starr,’ she told him. “I’m going to
write a story.”

““Understood,” he said, and put his key
in the lock. ““Want to come in?”

“What worries me is that Sheilah knows
what happened,” Lucille said. “She saw a
newspaper story, you see, that described how
an unidentified woman had been found
mugged in Riverside Park. It also described
pretty exactly a scarf of hers. I recall seeing
Sheilah wear it—a scarf with hounds and
hunters and a little laughing fox.”

“A laughing fox?’ he said, feeling his
muscles tense, knowing his jaw was rigid, his
eyes staring. He recovered himself and said,
“Yes, she had a scarf like that. I gave it to
her for her tenth birthday.”

“Then I suppose Mrs. Starr borrowed it?”

He pushed the door open and motioned
her in without replying. At that moment the
telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver
and said, “Hello.”

“Paul?” It was Arthur Landis’s voice. low
and worried. ‘Detective Luther said you
called and I figured you’d be home by now.
Any news?”

“No, they’re not here.”

“I took a cab and scoured this whole
neighborhood,” Arthur said. ““No sign of
them anywhere. I finally located Cora and
she’s on her way over to help any way she
can.”

“Thanks, Arty,’’ Paul said gratefully.

“T guess you know they’re calling it mur-
der,’ Arthur said. ‘““Who would murder Vera?”
“Arty, let’s not go into that. Not now.”

“Sorry,” Arthur said. “But why, Paul? What
did she ever do to anybody to get herself
killed? . . . Well, I'll talk to you later.”

After hanging up, Paul fumbled in his
pocket for his pipe, spilling tobacco as he
filled the bowl with an unsteady hand. The girl
said, ‘Want me to call Detective Luther? See
if there’s anything new?”

He gave her a grateful glance. “I'd appreci-
ate it. ’1l make some coffee.”

Lucille put the call through, and Frank
Luther said in a thoughtful voice, “So they’re
not up there? Well, ’'m wondering, maybe
they did go up there and he sent them off
someplace.”

“But I was here when he arrived.”

“You don’t think he knows where they are,
maybe?”

““No, of course not,” she said. “Why?”

“Sheilah had a telephone call from her
mother Saturday night,”’ he said. “She knows
where Vera went, and if she knew Vera was
with her daddy, for instance, it would explain
a lot.”

“Oh, I don’t think it could be that,” she
said, but uncertainly.

“He didn’t fly out to Chicago the way he
was supposed to, that’s the point,” Frank
said. ““He put it off until this morning. I’m not
trying to pin anything on the guy, but I don’t
like the alternative much either.”

“What alternative?”

“Off the record—OK?”

“All right,” she said.

“This is what worries me,” he said. ““Sheilah
is the only one who does know where her
mother went for the weekend, you see. The
guy with Vera must have known that she
talked to Sheilah on the telephone and he

LADIES’ HOME JOUR

may have been watching the apartment.
may have picked those two up, you see.”

“Oh, no!” Lucille gasped. ““You scared
and they ran away, that’s all.’ She repla
the receiver and turned away, deeply
turbed. She found Paul in the kitchen, ga
darkly at the percolator. She said encour
ingly, ““Detective Luther said not to wo
And Sheilah is a very level-headed mat
little girl. She hasn’t called here because
thinks you’re still in Chicago.”

He nodded. “That could be it. As yous
she’s pretty mature for her age. In fact, sl
quite a kid.”’ He slammed his fist hard on
edge of the sink. “If I could only see her, t
to her. She has courage, Miss Brush, that
girl, and I wonder *” He turned away
ruptly. It was the scarf, he knew now.
scarf with the little laughing fox that he
found on the bureau in Sheilah’s room a
she had left here Sunday a week ago.
was going through that kid’s mind? She kr
she had left the scarf here in this house.
she had seen the story in the paper. And
must know he had arranged to see Vera Sat
day; probably Vera had told her. Sheilah
think that he —— He could not bear to go
with the thought.

A cream-colored convertible was entering
drive and he murmured, “That must be
Landis—the wife of a partner in my firm.”
went out to meet Cora as she came up the st
to the porch. She was a tall, angular worm
with hair the color of a panther’s hide ¢
deep-set, dark eyes. She caught both his ha
studying his face. Then she said firmly:

“You need a good stiff drink, Paul.”

A drink was often Cora’s answer to
urgent problem. He had seen her yesterda’
was it only yesterday ?—at the Herrings’ co
tail party. He had not planned to go, since
had expected to be in Chicago, but he F
dropped in rather late. Arthur had been’
Washington over Sunday, clinching an
count on a golf course.

Cora had gone through a nervous bre
down «. year ago. In a time of worry and
tress she could be rather trying, but now ¢
was sympathetic and concerned. “I’m ¢
tressed that I wasn’t home all day, Paul, t
I had to go into town this morning.” §
broke off as she saw Lucille.

“This is Miss Brush,” he said. “‘She lives
the same building and she knows Sheilah a|
Benjy.”

Cora glanced at Lucille. “Did you kn
Vera too?” (

“Only slightly,” Lucille said. {

“T wonder where she went for the we
end?” Cora pondered. “I don’t suppose §
ever talked about where she went,
Brush? Or who she went out with?”

Liucitte shook her head. “She kept to h
self, except she did spend some time a
restaurant called Belardo’s.”

“I know Belardo’s,” Cora said. “To
Belardo was a friend of Vera’s, wasn’t he?’

“T wouldn’t know,” Lucille said.

“T don’t like to mention it now that sk
dead,’ Cora said, ‘“‘but Vera was just a li
bit undiscriminating in her acquaintanceshi
you know, and that sort of thing can lead
complications. Oh, I know I shouldn’t say
Paul, but you must know. After all, even beft
the divorce, wasn’t she forever finding sol
excuse to stay over in New York for the night

“Cora,” Paul said, “please stop.” ~ P|

She turned her big, sad eyes on him. “
it true?” p

“Just sit down, honey,”’ he said. ““Let’s —
quiet for a while. I want to think.”

“About Sheilah and Benjy? Of cour
Where could they be? Why should tl
hide?” Cora asked. “‘Sheilah has a father. §
has a home.”

‘She knew I was in Chicago.”

“Surely you'll hear from them soon,” L
cille said gently.

He sat down heavily, shook his head. “N
I think they must be hiding somewhere.”

“But why?” Lucille asked. “Running aw
from the police is understandable, but hidir
not calling you—how do you explain that?”

He did not know where, but he did kn¢
why, and he felt a fierce pride in Sheilah. §

CONTINUED ON PAGE

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was protecting him. He knew how that pre-
cise, tough little mind worked. She knew
about the scarf and only she could tell what
dark terror had clamped its vise on her loyal
heart, but he knew why she had run away. It
was for him.

Cora said, ‘‘I see a car coming, Paul. It looks
like the state police.”

He hurried to the door and reached the pa-
trol car as it came to a stop in the drive. There
were two troopers in it, one a sergeant.

Paul asked, “Any news of my children?”

“No, nothing yet,’ the sergeant said. “The
reason we stopped by was to ask you to come
around to the berracks with us. You might be
of some help.’

It was a place all children of Manhattan
came to know, where the grass was green un-
der the June sun and paths led beneath the
gently swaying branches of tall trees to the
landmarks of a child’s world—to a carousel,
to swings and monkey bars, to a lake where
toy boats sailed, to a zoo where sea lions
sunned under the open sky. It was Central
Park, and the children had been there through
the long afternoon.

Sheilah laid down the rules with precision,
making a game of it. “Now this is what we
do. We move around. We don’t want to be
seen in the same place twice. It’s something
like hare and hounds, Benjy, except we don’t
go together. We decide where we’re going and
we meet there. If anybody stops you, just say
you’re with your mother’s maid, Susan, and
you live over on Park Avenue and your name
is... let’s see ——”

“Benjy,” he said.

“No, it has to be a new name.”

He thought a moment. “Butch?”

“All right, Butch will do,” she said, and
took a last name from one in daddy’s business
firm. “Butch Fuller. Can you remember that?”

“Butch Fuller,” he said with satisfaction.

“And Pm Eulalia. Just call me Lolly for
short.”

“Short for lollipop?”

“Just remember Lolly, that’s enough.”

The first instinct had been flight—to get
away, to run. She had known the park since
babyhood, when they had lived in the West
Seventies, and she knew one very important
thing: in this city there were two kinds of
kids—those who were sheltered and shep-
herded and those who went where they
wanted as they pleased. But in either case no-
body paid any attention so long as you seemed
to be going about your business. It was only if
you loitered, or cried, or looked lost and help-
less or very naughty that anybody would give
you a second glance, even a policeman.

“First we'll just skate over to the zoo,”” she
said. ““When we get hungry we can eat in the
cafeteria there. You go first, V'll be following
and I'll keep an eye on you. When we get to
the zoo you go to the monkey house and I'll
wait for you by the sea lions while you look at
the monkeys, then you meet me there.”

She watched him skate away. There was al-
ways a crowd at the zoo, and the place to be
was among other kids. The skates were good
to have, too, because nobody would think
anything of seeing a child alone on skates,
knowing that a nana or a parent was probably
close by, sitting on some bench.

The sun was well past overhead when Benjy
met her at the sea lions’ pool. As they stood
together by the railing she whispered, ‘“‘Now
I'll go in the cafeteria and get a sandwich and
some milk and carry it to a table out on the
terrace. You watch where I put it down and
then you go to that table and sit down and eat.
Pll be real close by.”

CN
She joined the line inside the cafeteria,
bought two sandwiches and two individual
bottles of milk, and paid for them out of her
two-dollar bills. She carried the tray out onto
the terrace in the sunlight, put one sandwich
and a bottle of milk down for Benjy, and
moved on to another table. She watched until
he was safely seated and eating his sandwich
before she touched her own.

Someone had left a newspaper and her eye
was caught by the headline: MURDER ON RIv-
ERSIDE Drive. She glanced cautiously about

her, then took the newspaper into her lap.
There it was again, the description of her scarf
with its little laughing fox, and she saw a
subhead that said: Ex-Husband Sought.

As she read the paragraph that followed she
was holding her breath: Police were seeking
Paul Starr, the divorced husband of the dead
woman, for questioning. He was to have made
a trip to Chicago over the weekend, but police
said he had not appeared for an appointment
in that city and up until late morning his
whereabouts still were unknown. Meanwhile
police were investigating ——

She fought back the tears. At her elbow
Benjy’s voice asked, “Shee, what’s the matter?”

She had almost shut it out, but now the fear
and the panic had come back. Daddy would
be home tomorrow, his secretary had said on
the telephone, but Sheilah had been sure he
would hurry back as soon as he heard what
had happened. But he had not been to Chi-
cago, the newspaper said, and nobody knew
where he was. There was no use telephoning
an empty house in Grandkill. Daddy wasn’t
there; he had gone away. She didn’t know
what he would want her to do. She wasn’t go-
ing to let them take her and Benjy to any chil-
dren’s shelter and make her tell about how she
had left her scarf in the house at Grandkill,
she knew that. She wished daddy was home.
She wished she could call and hear his voice,
and she would call just in case, but she knew
the telephone would just ring and ring in the
empty house. Sheilah shut her eyes tight.

+ ACTIVE AND RESERVE | *
+ FORCES re

*
Ke ayy Ht

THIRD WEEK IN MAY

“Shee, is that mommy’s name in the pa-
per?’ Benjy asked.

“No,” she said, “‘of course not.”

But he still studied the printing. He knew
how to pick out the capital letters and the ar-
rangement of the smaller letters was familiar.
He said in a low, dogged voice, ‘But I see a
big V, and a big S, and look—I’ve seen it just
like that on the envelopes when mommy gets
mail. Vera Starr. And that’s number sixty-two,
just like our house. Isn’t it, Shee?”

“Don’t call me that. Say Lolly.”

She got abruptly to her feet and took his
hand. She had just thought of something—it
had flashed through her mind. She remem-
bered back to a time, just after Benjy was
born, when she had been lost in the Rambles.
She said in a determined voice, ‘Come on.
We’ve got to go.”

“Go where, Sh—Lolly?”

“We're going to play that game some
more,” she said. ““We’re going up past the
Mall to a place I know. You go up there past
the polar bears and wait for me at the top of
the steps.”

“All right,” Benjy said. ‘“‘But where is it
we're going, Shee?”

“T know a secret place,” she said. “A long
time ago when we lived on West Seventieth
Street I found a secret place, like a little house,
Benjy, and we’re going to find it again.”

From the zoo it was a long way, and when
you skated very far your legs began to ache. At
the end of the Mall, where the automobile
road crossed over, they took off their skates to
descend a flight of steps, where Sheilah took
note of comfort stations facing each other
across a landing. Beyond was the lake where
people were rowing boats, and on the far side
of the lake was the place she sought. They
came to the boathouse, where she could buy
popcorn and cheese crackers and candy.

She told Benjy to wait outside while she
stocked the duffel bag with provisions, break-
ing into another two-dollar bill and spending

almost every cent of it. With her skates slung
over her shoulder Sheilah led the way up a
steep incline and turned off on a path beyond
the lake.

She had been lost here a long time ago. It
was called the Ramble, although the kids all
said Rambles, and the paths went every which
way up and down among steep little hills and
through miniature gorges, circling massive
outcroppings of gray and mossy rock. She
had wandered off on a narrow footpath and
got lost and found the secret place.

But it had been a long time ago. When at
last she found it, she was not at all sure it
was the same place. It was smaller than she
remembered. But it was a good-enough secret
place, and big enough for the two of them to
stretch out side by side. You could call it a
cave, but really it was a ledge in an outcrop-
ping of rock that overhung a snug, dry place.
Other slabs of rock closed it off at the sides,
and in front of it was the rhododendron. There
was even a crevice in under the ledge big
enough to hold their skates and the duffel bag.

Benjy whispered, ““Where are we, Shee?”

“This is it,’’ she said. ‘Our secret place.”

“Just in under there?’ He looked disap-
pointed.

“It’s our little house, Benjy, just for you and
me. We have everything we need close by—a
place to wash and all that down by the boat-
house and a place to buy things.”

Benjy smiled tentatively, because he did
love to play house, but this was a dark, remote
place. He followed Sheilah in under the ledge
of rock, both on their hands and knees. The
opening was barely two feet high, because of
the downward plunge of the ledge, but inside
the ceiling sloped higher and at the back there
was room for Sheilah to kneel erect.

“There’s just one thing to remember, Benjy.
This is our secret house. If you hear anybody
coming you keep very, very quiet. Don’t make
any sound.”

“OK, I'll be quiet,” he said. “But how long
are we going to stay here, Shee?”

‘Just as long as we want,” she said.

He looked around at the gray stone that
shut them in. “I don’t think I'd like it after it
got real dark in here.”

“It’s better than the children’s shelter,
though,” Sheilah said. ‘““We’ve got stuff to eat
and a place to sleep and nobody to tell us what
we have to do or ask us any questions. It’s
our very own place, Benjy. Don’t you like it?
Aren’t you having fun?”

“Oh, sure,”’ he said doubtfully. “But we’re
not going to do this a/ways, are we?”

“Nothing is for always,” Sheilah said.

“That’s good,” Benjy said. ““Because I want
my own bed and my little monk to sleep
with.”

““Hush!”’ Sheilah whispered tensely.

He hushed, with his mouth gaping and his
eyes showing a frightened gleam in the gloom
of the enclosure.

Sheilah whispered, “I heard something.” It
was a rustling noise outside, the shaking of a
branch, a questioning sniff and then a little
whine, close to the entrance. Sheilah saw big
brown eyes and a small, crouching body and
said, “Benjy, look!”

“It’s a puppy dog,” Benjy said.

Sheilah whistled softly, said, “Come here,
pup. Come on in, puppy.”

Benjy backed away on his knees as the lit-
tle dog came out of the light and stood with
one foreleg poised and bent, his head on one
side. Benjy had wanted a puppy dog, but now
he felt timid and stayed close to his sister as
she whistled again and said, “Here, pup.”’ The
dog approached, put his cold nose in her hand.
As Sheilah patted him he snuggled against her
and whined.

“Benjy, give him a pat,” Sheilah said. “‘He’s
a Jovely little dog and he wants to be friends.”

Benjy put out his hand uncertainly and the
little dog licked his fingers.

““He’s a little lost dog,’ Sheilah said. ‘See,
he has a collar and a license. He got lost in
the Rambles, poor little puppy, and he found
our secret place.”

“Ts he ours now, Shee?”

“T don’t know about finders, keepers,’ she
said. ‘“There’s a name on the collar—he lives
over on Park Avenue, and he belongs to a Mr.
Robert Hadley. And his name is Fritz.”

LADIES’ HOME JOUR

“Hello, Fritz,” Benjy said, and strokec
little dog’s head. At once Fritz crawled
Benjy’s lap and the boy showed Sheilz
happy grin. “Can we keep him, Shee?”

“T guess we have to take him back to
Hadley,” Sheilah said.

““Now? Right away?”

“T guess not right away,” she said. “Ig
Mr. Hadley won’t mind if we borrow him
a while, so long as we take good care of f
Open the duffel bag and get out some of th
cheese crackers, Benjy. I bet he’s hungry.”

“So am I hungry,” Benjy said. “I'll h
one too.”

““Mr. Hadley was very bad,’ Sheilah
thoughtfully. ““You’re supposed to keep
dog ona leash, but Mr. Hadley took theJe
off and little Fritzie just ran away.” :

‘““How about us? Is it us who’s bad?
away, too, like Fritzie.”

““Nobody’s bad.”

“But what are mommy and daddy going
say?” ;

“Daddy’s gone away,” Sheilah said. “E
in Chicago. Mommy’s gone away, too.” —

“Where ?”’ j

“First it was Atlantic City. She went to
lantic City and saw the ocean.” q

“Well, I saw the ocean, too,” Benjy said

“Benjy, you know what we’ve got to de
Sheilah said. ‘“We’ve got to get a leash so li
Fritzie won’t run away from us.” i

“T don’t think hell run away from w
Benjy said. “I think he likes us.”

‘But if a policeman finds him he'll say’
Sheilah made a deep, important voic
“““Where’s that little dog’s leash? That li
dog is supposed to have a leash.’”’

“T know what I'd say,”’ Benjy said eage
“I'd say my nana’s got the leash. My nam
Butch Fuller and this is my little dog Frit
and my nana has his leash.” i

Sheilah shook her head. “‘It says Hadley
the collar, though. You’d have to say ye
name was Butch Hadley.” /

“OK, Butch Hadley,” he said. ]

“And that makes me Lolly Hadley,” Sk
lah said. ““Oh, yes, I’ve positively got to g
our little Fritzie a leash. If you were all ale
with Fritzie you wouldn’t be scared, wo
you?” :

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t be scared,” he said.

“Because I’ve got to go get a leash for Frit
and then I’m going to telephone daddy.”

“And ask him if we can keep the pup
dog?” y

“Yes, I'll ask him,” Sheilah said. “If h
home.”

“Mommy would say no,’’ Benjy said u
happily.

‘“‘Well—I guess so,” Sheilah said.

“But call her just the same,” Benjy s
eagerly. ““Maybe she’s home by now.”

Sheilah shook her head. “I don’t th
mommy is coming home for a long tif
Benjy, so we can keep Fritzie, at least fot
while. But first I have to get a leash. Now
hold Fritzie’s collar good and tight so
won't run off and follow me.”

‘He won’t run off,’ Benjy said. “He li
me. See how he’s licking my hand.”

“Well, give him another cracker.”

Bae by the lake, in the boathouse, Sheil
had noticed a telephone booth, and she
there, making note of every turn she toe
But once she was in the booth she found
she had used up all her change except a t

cent piece. She lifted the receiver, droppe

the dime in the slot, and dialed,the operate
When the voice answered, “May I help you
Sheilah said, “I want to make a collect call
Mr. Paul Starr in Grandkill, New York.”

“All right, dear,’’ the operator said. “*
is calling?”

Sheilah hesitated. ‘Do I have to say that

“If you want them to accept the call,
do.”

Sheilah thought a moment, said, “My nat
is Joanie Perkins.”’ She was sure Joar
wouldn’t mind if she used her name.
daddy knew Joanie; he would accept the

““Give me your number, Joanie,” the op
ator said. ‘The one there on the dial—see it

“Yes,” Sheilah said, and gave the numb
She heard the distant ringing—one ring, two

CONTINUED ON PAG

eae nee new

4 it

eee

e Robert Virgins of Virginia, Illinois, were the first to

: ; ; :
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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 84

then the sound broke off in the middle of a
ring and a woman’s voice said, “Hello.”

“T have a collect call for Mr. Paul Starr,”
the operator said.

‘*He’s not here right now.”
pretty sure it was Aunt Cora’s voice.
calling?”

“Do you know when he’! be in or where he
can be reached ?”’ the operator asked.

“Well, he’s at the state-police headquarters
right now,” Aunt Cora said. “But I’m author-
ized to accept all calls. Who’s calling?”

The operator said, “Joanie, do you want
to ——”

Sheilah hung up.

Sheilah was
“Who's

I was late in the day when Detective Frank
Luther called at Belardo’s Restaurant. There
was So little to go on in this case, he thought
as he questioned Tony Belardo. He hadn’t
been able to get a line on the tallish blond guy
who had sometimes taken Vera out. He had
run down the names listed in Vera’s address
book, but the men had all turned out to be
strictly legitimate—her agent and various peo-
ple for whom she had done artwork. The
number of Belardo’s Restaurant had been in
the book, however.

“Now look,” Tony Belardo was saying,
“‘sure she came in here now and then, but I
don’t know much about her. How would I
know if she had a steady boyfriend?”

Belardo was a plumpish, well-dressed man
with very black eyebrows and candid brown
eyes. Detective Luther had checked with the
local precinct before he came over and had
learned that Belardo had a record. Some time
ago he had been picked up on a narcotics
charge, but it had been a headwaiter who had
been pushing the stuff in Belardo’s and Tony’s
hands had been clean; otherwise he would
never have kept his liquor license.

“But Mrs. Starr did come in here fairly
often, didn’t she?’ Frank asked.

“*Now and then, sure. This is a quiet place.
We've got a nice, refined clientele. Call the
local precinct. Ask them if they ever had any
complaints about Belardo’s.”

“I can think of one complaint,’ Frank said.

“Oh?” Belardo hesitated an_ instant,
shrugged. “Do you blame the barrel for one
bad apple?”

“Anyhow, I’m not asking about Belardo’s,”
Frank said. “I’m asking about a customer of
yours who got herself murdered.”

“Vera Starr liked to drop in for a glass of
sherry and say hello to me or the wife or Bert,
the barman. We try to keep Belardo’s a
friendly, respectable place where an unes-
corted lady won’t be bothered.”

It was always the same story, Frank thought;
nobody knew a thing. Susan, the maid, had
been no help. Sure, Mrs. Starr had gone out a
lot, but no man had ever come up to the apart-
ment, a fact confirmed by Joe the doorman.
There was this tallish blond guy who had
waited for her in the lobby a couple of times,
and more than once Joe had noticed a car
double-parked and had seen Mrs. Starr come
down and hop into it and drive off, but he
hadn’t had a good look at the man or made a
note of the license number—why should he?
It appeared that Vera had wanted to keep her
private life as secret as possible. Maybe it
was because the divorce wasn’t final yet, be-
cause of the custody of the two youngsters.
Maybe she hadn’t wanted her husband keep-
ing tabs on her.

“Now look, Mr. Belardo,”’ he said pa-
tiently. “‘Didn’t she ever come in here with
anybody?”

“Not with guys, no. Once she brought a
lady in for lunch.”

“Know who she was?”

“Except that she’s the kind who drinks her
lunch and dyes her hair the color of a palo-
mino horse—no.”

“And Mrs. Starr never came in here with
any guy? For instance, a tallish blond guy?”

Belardo said “No” but his eyes shifted
away.

Frank said coldly, ‘This is a murder inves-
tigation, mister. You’d better come clean.”

Belardo shrugged. “Well, it could be you
mean Wilkes Conway. He comes in here and
he used to chat with Mrs. Starr.”

LADIES’ HOME JOUR?

“Did he take her out?”

“T wouldn’t know. He keeps his busines
himself, like Vera did.”

“What is his business?”

Belardo smiled. “Care for art?”

“Art?” Frank said. ““He’s an artist? WF
does he live?”

“Over on Bleecker Street. I guess it’s in
telephone book.”

“You think I’d find him home this timé
day?”

Belardo grinned. “I think you'll find
sitting in the bar, Mr. Luther.”

Frank set his jaw, said, “Get him.”

He was a tallish blond guy, all right, Fra
saw as Wilkes Conway came from the
with Belardo. He had a pale, intent fac

“They tell me you were friendly with z
Starr,” Frank said.

“IT don’t know much about her. We a
an interest in art. We made the rounds of
galleries occasionally.” ]

“Which galleries are open at night?”

“I didn’t say we went at night,” Conw
said. ““‘We both liked Dixieland, too, and
went to hear music together a few times.”

“When did you see her last, Mr. Conwayg

“Thursday or Friday. In here it was,
cocktail time before she rushed home to
dinner for her kids.”

“You know those kids, I guess.”

“lve seen them, sure.” if

“If you happened to see them on the strnjf
you'd recognize them, I suppose?”

“Yes, naturally.”

There was something about Conway’s ¥_
mote blue eyes that made the hairs at the na#
of Frank’s neck respond. They were talkif-
about a girl he knew who had been murder

ia.

There is no wholly satisfactory substitu
for brains, but silence does pretty well.
EDWIN STUAII

and he showed no emotion. The poor wo
was dead and had left two little runaway ki¢
ere were you this weekend, Mr. Co

* he asked. | U
“Home, mostly.”

“Do you own a car?”

**Me?”’ Conway said. “What for?”

“About this weekend, did you spend
alone?”

Conway smiled tightly. “You got the ide
killed Vera?”

“Tm just checking,’ Frank said.

“OK, check. Saturday night I was here u
til closing. Right, Tony?”

“Right,” Belardo said.

“Then I went home,’ Conway said. “Ne
day I never left the house, and let’s see yé
prove any different.” |

“OK,” Frank said. “But maybe you c@
tell me who else took her out?”

“Some uptown guy,’ Conway said. “I don
know who he was. She never told me |
name. She never told me anything. She W
kind of standoffish. Right, Tony?”

“Right,” Belardo said.

“Oh’—Frank eyed him
tried your luck too?”

“Cut it out, Mr. Luther,’’ Belardo sai
“Tm a married man.” '

“That’s all for now,” Frank said.
you.”

He walked out into the sunlight. He’d ma
a thorough check of Mr. Wilkes Conway,
thought. For good measure he’d find out wh
Belardo had been up to over the weekend. BU
the point was, there was another guy—a gi}
with a car. An uptown guy, Wilkes Con
had said. It had to be one of two things: ei
the husband, or she had been off for the weel
end with another guy. For reasons that co
be only speculation now, she had been m
dered—strangled to death with’a scarf tha
had bit deep into her neck.

It had happened late Saturday night andt
killer had had a body on his hands. He hadf
wanted to dump it wherever he had been. Hf

wanted the investigation here in New Yo
He wanted it to go down on the books as ju!
another unsolved mugging. So he had brought
her in the night—Sunday night that woul¢

Ww ay?

sharply—“y

“Th ar

}
|
|

iy’, 1962

\ye-and turned up onto Riverside Drive and
Wfirst place he had found deserted he had
«ved her over the wall.

could mean she had been mixed up with a
ried man, maybe, and making trouble, and
cad got rid of her. That would explain why

\gehadn’t been seen with the guy. Or it could
(Paul Starr. He had wanted those kids

\dux. And the kids were crazy about him, par-

larly Sheilah. Susan had told him so. It

ned Susan had a pretty low opinion of

a, forever finding some small fault to tease

‘temper, like a speck of dust or a little

‘ed sugar. With kids in the house, and one

nem a six-year-old, something was bound
yiee spilled.

..e stood in frowning thought. He was wor-

about those kids. They had been in his
lody and he had let them slip away. Sheilah
really put it over on him; probably heard
4e pretty wild accounts about policemen
| jails and she had run out, thinking they

p@e going to give her the third degree or
iething, like on television. Either that, he
ught, or she knew something about her

fer. Vera may have told her on the tele-

,B)ne that they were together Saturday night.

| state boys up in Rockland County had

ced Paul Starr up and Frank was anxious
have a go at him. But first he hoped there
ald be some news about the kids.

s he turned away something made him
tate; there was some fragment of informa-

, that eluded him. A thought had crossed

mind and slipped away, leaving an impres-

1 that instinct had noted—that police-

y’s instinct—but he couldn't remember

at it was. Something Tony Belardo had

1? No. Miss Brush? No. Susan? He shook

head uncertainly.

te turned into the corner stationery store

went toward the telephone booth at the

k. Mr. Hyman was behind the counter and

nin man in a sports shirt and tight-fitting

#ts was buying a package of cigarettes.

nk heard him say in a soft, Southern voice,

at was a bad thing that happened there
nd the corner.”

Mr. Hyman only nodded as he rang up the
sale. The man went on in the sort of voice a
guy used when he wanted to pick up informa-
tion, “I saw it in the late paper. Murdered,
they say. It’s awful hard on those poor little
kids, ain’t it?”

Frank had reached the telephone booth,
but he turned back and asked, ““Do you know
those children?”

The man gave Frank a steady, unblinking
look as he opened his cigarettes with thin,
strong fingers. The movement of his hands
called Frank’s attention to a tattoo on his left
wrist—a mermaid, it appeared to be. ““What’s
it to you, mister?”

“Tm a police detective,” Frank said. ““Do
you know those kids?”

The man backed away a step and smiled.
Even when he smiled his mouth had a mean
look, Frank thought. “I happened to see it in
the paper, that’s all. Two little kids, and their
mother killed—that kind of hits you, don’t
Tea

“Yeah,” Frank said.

Mr. Hyman said, “Mr. Detective—please.
I know those two little ones and I’m worried.
Isn’t there any news at all?”

Frank shook his head. “*No, not yet.”

“IT see in the paper their daddy went out to
Chicago,” Mr. Hyman said. “It says you fel-
lows are looking for him.”

The man with the mermaid tattoo had eased
to the door and now was gone. Frank consid-
ered calling him back, checking him out, but
there was no good reason for it. The guy
hadn’t done anything. To Mr. Hyman he said,
“We located the father.”

“Good,” said Mr. Hyman. “Those are two
of my best kids. They always behave them-
selves. Never make a racket or muss up the
magazines. Nice, tidy kids they are.”

Frank was gazing out at Sixth Avenue and
suddenly it came to him—the thing that had
crossed his mind before. Tidy kids, Mr. Hy-
man said. Spilling things, Susan had said.
Complaints about dust and spilled sugar.
That, and Tony Belardo’s record. He swung
around, went quickly to the telephone booth

and dialed the number of Vera Starr’s apart-
ment. When Arbelli answered he said, “Nick,
this is Frank.”

“Yeah, what did you find out?”

“IT located that tallish blond guy,” Frank
said. ““His name is Wilkes Conway. Better
have the local precinct check where he lives
over on Bleecker Street.”

“OK,” Nick said. “I’m still waiting to
hear from Rockland County. The state boys
up there have the father down at headquar-
ters and they’re dusting off his house and car.
The prints ought to be on the way downtown
by now.”

Se NS

Nick, I've been thinking,” Frank said.
“Something kind of sticks in my mind. I won-
der if you noticed: on the rug over by the box
where she kept what the little girl called her
swipes—you know.”

NES

“Well, this is a wild one, but let’s check it
out. There by the corner of the box somebody
spilled something—sugar, maybe, or talcum.
Just a little bit of it. Take a little taste. See if
it’s sweet.”

“OK, hold on,” Nick Arbelli told him.

Frank waited in the dark booth, propping
his shoulder wearily against the wall. When a
man started playing long shots it meant he
didn’t have much to go on.

Nick came back on the wire. “You’re right,
Frank. It’s bitter.”

“Send it to the lab,” Frank said. “And call
Lieutenant Digby at Narcotics.”

He walked briskly out of the stationery
store and turned the corner. Across Sixth
Avenue the man with the mermaid tattoo
stood in a doorway and watched him until he
turned in under the canopy at No. 62.

Did they know or didn’t they? That was the
big question. Claude Boggs sucked in smoke
from the cigarette dangling from the corner of
his mouth. He had had to leave the stuff with
Vera last trip. He had brought it in and found
out that the police had picked up his connec-
tion, the heat was on. Vera hadn’t known what
was in the package, but she had always been

ate

gods
bearse
ape of: Cg eee

xx
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Koss

good-looking. Over 60 colors and styles—at

a smart cookie. A guy couldn’t leave a package
with a dame and ask her to hold it for him and
not expect her to take a peek inside.

That dick in the stationery store—would he
ever learn to keep his yap shut ?—that dick in
the store hadn’t let on, but there had been a
certain look in his eye. Maybe they had found
the package. Maybe they were playing cat and
mouse. But if Vera had tumbled to what was
in that package she was smart enough to make
a contact somehow and sell the stuff; it was
worth all of ten grand. She was smart, he
thought, but not smart enough. They'd left
her dumped over the wall on Riverside Drive,
a little dead pigeon who had double-crossed
her own brother.

He spat out the cigarette and ground it un-
der his heel. What if the stuff was still there
and they hadn’t found it? That was what kept
him on the hook. There was no good reason
why Uncle Claude couldn’t call to ask about
his little niece and nephew. He was their uncle,
wasn’t he? The thing was—give it a little
time, a day, two days, until their business was
finished and they cleared out. If the stuff was
still there, he’d find it. A half kilo of heroin
was worth an easy ten grand.

It was not an easy story for Lucille Brush
to write, knowing the children as she did and
feeling this deep and bewildering anxiety. The
question Detective Luther had raised re-
mained a menacing shadow in her thoughts—
the possibility that the man who had mur-
dered Vera had taken the children. If they
knew him, they might have gone with him
unquestioningly. She prayed it was not so.

It would soon be night. Children alone in
public after dark would be conspicuous, she
thought. The police would be on the lookout.
In the eighty-one precincts of this great city,
in all its five boroughs, the four-to-twelve
shifts had marched out of the station houses
alerted to the description of these two small
runaways.

Then why was there no news? Why hadn’t
Sheilah telephoned, if she was safe and free?
Paul Starr was holding something back. Every

Azrock dealer listed in-the yellow pages

fo "Vina-Lax Floor Styling Handagdk’—25c.- Azrock Floor Products Division, Uvalde Ro

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eee

instinct of a reporter told Lucille so. She was
still troubled by the manner in which he had
drawn her aside, just before the state-police
car had taken him away, and asked, “*Will the
story you write have your name on it? If Shei-
lah saw your name on it she’d read it. So
maybe you could put a message in your story
that her father wanted especially to see her be-
cause he had something he wanted to ex-
plain. . . . No, just say he wanted to tell her
that everything was all right and to please call
home, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Explain what, Mr. Starr?” she had asked.
“Do you know some reason why she ran
away—something you haven't told me?”

Avoiding her eyes, he had said, “I talked to
her on the telephone Saturday afternoon. She
wanted to bring Benjy up to see me and I’m
afraid I frightened her. I told her we’d get in
bad trouble with the judge if she came up here
without permission.”

“Oh,” Lucille had said, though she was not
at all convinced.

Now she sat staring at the last page of the
story in her typewriter. She had tried to put a
little of the personalities of Sheilah and Benjy
into it; she had tried to move the casual reader
by the tragedy of these two children, as she was
herself moved, but the case might be more
tragic than she knew.

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“Say, haven’t you finished that story yet?”
Bob Stout was standing at her desk, smiling.
“Tf you haven’t eaten yet, I thought we might
have dinner.”

“I’m watching this story, Bob.”

“Let’s have some coffee, at least,” he said.

She glanced at the clock on the far wall and
said, “I suppose I’d better hand the story in.
All right, let’s have a cup of coffee.”’

She was on her way to the city desk when
she heard a sudden, urgent shout. ““New lead
coming on the Riverside story. They’ve picked
up the husband.”

Bob Stout called the question, ““Why?”

“The state police up in Rockland County
gave his car a going over and they found Mrs.
Starr’s fingerprints all over it,” George said.
“Starr admits he saw her Saturday night.”

Liacitte had expected it because of the odd-
ness of Paul Starr’s behavior. She had known
that he was holding something back. She had
thought his manner strange, his eyes evasive.
But a murderer? Her emotions would not ac-
cept it. Don’t be naive, Lucille, she thought.
Murders are committed by the nicest people.

“| don’t think he did it,” she said flatly. ~~

““No?” Bob said. ““Why not?”

‘‘He’s not that kind, that’s all.”

Bob grinned. “People always spoke well of
Dr. Crippen too.”

“It’s nothing to joke about,” she said.
“You're talking about a man with two little
children, a man with decent instincts, I'd say,
a man who would never use violence.”

““He seems to have made an impression.”

“I hate the newspaper business,” she said
suddenly. “It turns people into Madame
Defarges. Their reason for living is to see the
heads roll.”

“Oh, come,” he said. “That guy did make
an impression.”

It was humiliating to have tears in her eyes.
“I’m going to pass up the coffee, Bob,” she
said. “But thank you.’ She walked quickly
toward the elevators.

Night came swiftly to the Ramble. The trees
spread dark wings overhead and there was
hardly any twilight—in a moment it was dark
in the cave and through the low opening the
children saw only a fading gleam on the black
leaves of the rhododendron. Benjy sat very
close to Sheilah, with the little dog in his lap.
Fritzie had a leash now, snapped securely on
his collar, and Benjy had put his wrist through
the loop of it.

The night came, and with it the hesitant
sound of far-off thunder. It had been a bright,
hot day, but a thunderhead had drifted down-
river and cut short the twilight.

“Shee,”’ Benjy said in a low voice, “tell mea
story.”

“All right.” She made her tone cheerful.
“What kind of story?”

He thought a moment. ‘‘Out of the Bible, I
guess.”

‘Daniel in the lions’ den?”

He said quickly, ““No, not that one.”

““How about Moses in the bulrushes,”’ Shei-
lah asked, because it was one of her favorites.

“No, not about babies,” Benjy said.

“All right, about a bigger boy,” she said.
“About Samuel and how the Lord called to
him in the night.”

Again there was a sound of thunder, louder
now, and Benjy said, ““No,” in a quick, scared
voice.

“IT know the one you want,” Sheilah said,
with an understanding smile in the darkness.

“Yes?” he said eagerly. “Which one?”

“Why, Benjamin and the silver cup, of
course.”

Benjy sighed and snuggled close to her.
“Yes, tell me that one, Shee.”

The little dog whined and pressed his cold
nose into Benjy’s palm and the boy said re-
assuringly, “Now don’t be scared, Fritzie.
That’s only thunder. You don’t have to be
scared of thunder. Does he, Shee?”

“Not when he’s got a nice, snug place like
this, especially,” Sheilah said.

“Yes, it’s all right here,” Benjy said. “But I
wish just one thing, Shee. I wish I had my lit-
tle old monk.”

“But you’ve got Fritzie,”’ Sheilah said, and
put her arm around him. “And you’ve got me,
Benjy.”

LADIES’ HOME JOURI®)

She wadded up a sweater for his pillow,
by the time Joseph’s men found the silver
in Benjamin’s sack the little boy was so
asleep. Sheilah lay back and rested her h
on her own rolled-up sweater, but her ¢
remained open in the darkness. The fat
purse containing her two-dollar bills
the pocket of the sweater for safekeeping
she felt it against her head. She had alre
spent—/et’s see—one two-dollar bill at the}
and another at the candy stand, and then
had broken into another at the drugstore
Madison Avenue where she had bought },
leash for Fritzie and still another at the ¢
cery store where she had bought bread if)
milk and peanut butter—all she could cp
into the duffel bag. That made four ty
dollar bills in just one day, she thought, nj},
meant that there were only twenty-foug)}
Everything was so expensive and every tif
she spent a two-dollar bill it was like spend},
a year of her life. No, not a year, she amend
because she had got ten of them on her i
birthday and ten into twelve was—well, ei
bill meant more than a month of her life ef},
she had spent more than four months in jf}
one day. Once you broke into your luck, |
thought, it just dribbled away, all of it.

Off toward Columbus Avenue there was 4}
sound of a fire siren. Closer by she hearif,
footfall on asphalt and then the sound of rij,
ning feet, a shout in the night. Sheilah lay Vie
still, listening. She could not sleep, could if},
keep her mind from working. All through ey.
day, since she had seen the newspaper on?
Hyman’s stand, she had been on the run. Sf,
had met each situation as it came along, |},
now she had time to think. Vera was dead @

Choose in marriage a woman whom )
would choose as a friend if she were a mez

JOSEPH JOUBE

with Benjy and they had forty-eight dolli

and they couldn’t stay here in the park f
ever. She just had to face up to it, as mom)
to say, and figure out what to do next.

Benjy awakened with a startled, cho
sound and began to sob in the darkness. SI
lah put her hand on his shoulder and wi
pered, ““What’s the matter? Did you ha
nightmare?”

“Yes,” he said.

Again came the sound of a fire siren <
this time even the cave seemed to listen unt
faded away, far off. The little dog Fritzie m
a growling noise in his sleep and Benjy ask
very low, “Tomorrow do we go home, Shee}

“You never know about tomorrow,”
said.

“Won't mommy be home by then?”

“No.”

He thought a moment. “But how do
know, Shee?”

He kept coming back to that questio
where was mommy?—and Sheilah thot
with a sense of resolution that Benjy ha
face up too. She couldn’t hide it always.

“Mommy’s gone away on a long tf

“Gone where?” /

“Very far away. She’ll be gone a long, l
time.”

“For a week?”

“For longer than a week, Benjy. Long)
than you can ever count, because ——”

“Don’t tell me, Shee,”’ his frightened ve
cried. ‘Don’t say it!”

She could see the faintest reflection of li
on his eyes, saw his profile dark in silhoueé
with the underlip stuck out, and she §
firmly, “She told me to take care of you af
see that you were happy and had lots of fun
don’t you worry about it, Benjy. Everytl
will be just fine.”

“You’re just making it up,” Benjy said
voice rising shrilly. ““You’re just an old
You’re an old stinker and you're telling
lies.”” He was crying uncontrollably, his
screwed up, the tears running down
cheeks, and he said in a phlegm-choked, g
ing voice, “I hate you, Shee. I hate you.”

“You asked me,” Sheilah said. She put
her hand, but he jerked away from her

‘p1962
{

Ivled on the floor of the cave. with his
buried deep in his rolled-up sweater and
ying muffled by the wool. Gently she said,
Il go live with daddy now, back home in
‘dkill, and you'll go to school there next
ind be a first-grader and you'll have so
» friends, old friends and new friends, and
/ know daddy will get you a bike to ride.”

i kicked at her with one foot. and the heel

ht her on the chin just below the mouth.
was sobbing, too, but the hurt and the

of blood made her cry out angrily, “You

‘@d me. You kicked me in the mouth.”
quieted him. He was still sobbing, but the
hysterical spasm had passed. Benjy

ly ever had a tantrum, the way other kids

be did and the way Sheilah had, too, when
vas six. But he did call her bad names
times and other people, too, including
imy. When he was real mad he had some-
® said, “I hate you, mommy,” just the way

) hd said, “I hate you, Shee,” and Sheilah

imbered that mom had usually just

ed and said, “OK, have your little hate.”

e would let him have his little hate, too,

hought, and let him have his big cry. She
eside him, not moving. The little dachs-

| was awake and nosed Benjy’s ear in
hathy. Sheilah sat a long time without

Ing until the sobbing stopped altogether,

| Benjy’s hand touched her knee, groping
er hand. She took it and squeezed it

and stretched out close beside him, with
weater under her head.

e rumble of thunder had come through
arred windows while Paul sat in a small
rogation room and answered the ques-
F of the two detectives, Luther and Arbelli.
Ptective Luther was saying in a low, prod-
tone, “When I was talking to you on the
thone didn’t it occur to you that it might
been helpful to us to know that you saw
) Starr Saturday night?”
Fcouldn’t think of anything then but my
ren,” Paul said. “That’s all I can think of
Where were they in all that rain and
ul There ought to be some news.”

eee

nut and antique white are at home in most any
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ving, dining or bedroom area gracefully. And all of
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“We'll find your kids, Mr. Starr,” Frank
Luther said. ‘But let’s get back to you and
Vera. You say you dropped her off near Grand
Central?”

“Yes, about five o’clock.”’

“But first you sat in that hotel lobby and
had a little chat, you say. Would you call it a
discussion or an argument you had?”

“A discussion, and entirely friendly.”

“But it was about the kids, wasn’t it? You
wanted something done about those kids?”

*‘T wanted to help my daughter make a bet-
ter adjustment, yes.”

““How were you going to do that—by taking
the kids yourself? Had you threatened to get a
lawyer and sue for custody?”

“No, there was nothing like that.”

“But you were keeping tabs on her, weren’t
you?”

“Keeping tabs?” he said. ““No. Why?”

“Well, if you could come up with some-
thing to prove she was an unfit mother you
could take the kids, couldn’t you?”

“She wasn’t an unfit mother. I’d like to
know what you are trying to prove. Mrs. Starr
and I were married for eleven years. We had a
friendly divorce. She was a woman of good
character—impulsive, temperamental, yes, but
a good and decent woman.”

“That’s just what puzzles us, Mr. Starr,”
Frank Luther said.

“Yes, what?”

“Why a good and decent woman would
have a little pure heroin sprinkled on the rug
in her apartment.”

“That’s impossible,” Paul said flatly.

“Nonetheless, it’s true. Maybe there were
things about your wife you didn’t know.”

“I don’t believe it,” Paul said.

“You say you dropped Vera off at Grand
Central Saturday. Didn’t she tell you where
she was going? Didn’t you ask her?”

“As a matter of fact, she volunteered that if
I knew I'd be surprised,’ Paul said.

**What did she mean by that?”

“I don’t know.”

“She had a rendezvous somewhere? Was
catching a train out, maybe?”

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“She asked me to drop her in the neighbor-
hood of Grand Central, not at Grand Cen-
tral.”

““What would have surprised you—who the
guy was, or where she was going?”

“T don’t know.”

“Well, how did she happen to volunteer
ita

Paul sighed. He was very tired. He had
taken a great deal today and always there was
the overwhelming uncertainty and fear—
where were Sheilah and Benjy? He said
wearily, “It grew out of a conversation we
had. I told her I wanted to work out some-
thing for the kids and she thought I was sug-
gesting that we take up where we left off.”

“Get back together, you mean?”

*“That’s what she thought I meant,” he said.
“As a matter of fact, for the sake of the kids, I
offered to give it another try. It wasn’t very
realistic, | admit.”

_
| eee asked softly, ““Were you still carrying
a torch for her, Mr. Starr?”

Paul hesitated, then said, “‘I still had some
feeling for her, but not what you'd call a
torch. Eleven years is a long time, Mr. Luther.
A man can’t just wipe it out.”

“Well, Mr. Starr,”’ Frank said, “as it stands
now, you were the last person known to have
seen Vera alive. You had a plane to catch
Saturday night but you canceled out. You
didn’t take a plane all next day. You didn’t fly
out until Monday morning. Sometime be-
tween the time you met your wife Saturday
and the time you boarded the plane she was
killed, hidden in the back of a car for quite a
while—probably all through Sunday—and
dumped into Riverside Park Sunday night.
We found her fingerprints in your car and you
account for it by saying you had a talk with
her and gave her a lift.”

“For only a few blocks,” Paul said.

‘Long enough to leave her fingerprints on
the door handle, the door to the glove com-
partment and the cigarette lighter,’ Frank
said. ““Now, Mr. Starr, we want to believe
your story. You dropped her off about five,

you say, and then nobody saw you until a
cocktail party at some people called the Her-
rings about six o’clock Sunday night. Where
were you all that time?”

“IT was at home with a briefcase full of
work,” Paul said, ‘preparing for my appoint-
ment in Chicago Monday.”

“Did you call anybody, or did anybody
call you?”

“No; my friends all thought I was in Chi-
cago.”

““Were you alone in the house, Mr. Starr?
Vera wasn’t with you?”

Paul was startled. ““Of course not.”

““What was the lucky thing that happened?”

“Lucky ?”’

“In Vera’s life?’

“IT don’t know what you mean.”

“Something that was just too, too, too
lucky,” Frank said. “Could it be the lady
thought she was being reconciled with her
husband?”

“Tm. afraid
Luther.”

“Sheilah had a telephone call late Saturday
night from her mother,” Frank said. “Susan,
the maid, heard her saying that something
was just too, too lucky. Do you know what
she meant?”

“T have no idea.”

“That call wasn’t made from your house,
was it?”

Paul said sharply, ““You can check all calls
from my house.”

**Believe me, we will,’’ Arbelli said.

Detective Luther smiled. ““We’re not accus-
ing you, Mr. Starr. We need your help. Your
ex-wife was murdered and I should think
you’d want to help us clear it up and find the
man who did it.”

“AL (60),

“T won’t say you’re not a prime suspect, but
we're looking at all sides of the picture,”
Frank said. “The thing that confuses it—to
your benefit, I might add—is that heroin we
found sprinkled on the rug.’ His voice sharp-
ened. “You know a fellow named Fony Be-
lardo?”

Ive lost the thread, Mr.

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“T’ve heard his name. He runs a restaurant,
doesn’t he?”

“But you don’t know him‘

SINOw

“OK,” Frank Luther said. “We’re going
to let you go home for now. And for your in-
formation, there’s a state trooper out at your
place in case your kids should call there.”

“T left a friend there to take calls,”

yo9

Paul
said.

“Well. the state boys wanted to kind of look
your house over, anyhow,”’ Nick Arbelli said
‘*We asked them to do that.”

“And your car should be back in your
garage by now,” Frank Luther said.

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Paul got suddenly to his feet, feeling a quick
and irrational anger. “I’ve come down here
and answered all your questions,” he said.
“Now let me ask a few. What about my kids?
What are you people doing? Can’t the whole
New York City police force find two runaway
children?”

Detective Luther looked at the floor in si-
lence for a moment, then he met Paul’s eyes.
“I’m going to level with you, Mr. Starr. When
heroin comes into the picture it means you're
dealing with guys who play rough. I don’t
know what Vera was up to, but she did have
some of the stuff. She made a little trip and she
turned up dead. You get the picture.”

“No,”’ Paul said. “She wasn’t that kind at
all.”

“That’s why we’ve been running down every
guy she knew,” Frank said. “Wilkes Conway,
Tony Belardo—we sweated him good. He
beat a narcotics charge once.”

“But small-time,’ Arbelli said. “Pushing.
That stuff on Vera’s rug was pure, like it had
just come in from France.”

*‘France?”’ Paul said, with a musing frown.

“That’s where they bring it from, mostly.”

“Something on your mind. Mr. Starr?”
Frank asked alertly.

Paul shook his head. “It was just a passing
thought.”

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“Such: as?”
“Well, you spoke of France, and I w
thinking of a sailor off a ship. Vera had}

brother who’s been in trouble with the ld
and I understand from the kids he was §

town not long ago.”
““What’s his name?” Frank asked.
“Claude Boggs,’ Paul said. “Benjy w

talking about an uncle with a mermaid top

tooed on his wrist who was a sailor off a ship

“Oh, that’s the guy I saw today, hangi
around the neighborhood.” Frank said. ‘
skinny guy with a mean-looking mouth?
sailor. That’s it. He brought the stuff in. Th
has to be it. Mr. Starr, you’ve been a big hej
This looks like our break.”

“I hope so. But we were talking about t¥

kids. You had something to tell me.” # #

“Oh,” Frank said, and hesitated a mo:
“Well, Vera went on a little trip. She did ¢

home Saturday night and talked to Sheila!

We don’t know how much she told abolf

where she was and who she was with, but

looks like maybe those kids were snatched.”

“Snatched!” Paul cried.

“Kidnaped. I’m sorry. I hate to have tot
you this. But how else can you figure it?”

“But they ran away. Weren’t they seen
Mr. Hyman and weren’t they alone—just t
two of them?”

“Tm hoping they just ran away,” Fra
said, “but it’s been a long time now, W
Starr
was watching the apartment.”

“Their uncle? Claude Boggs?”

“Maybe,” Frank said. “They knew hi
But maybe someone else. Vera went on a tr
probably with the guy who set up the deal. |
must have known Vera telephoned home a

The philosophy of one century is the cor}

mon sense of the next.

HENRY WARD BEECH]

talked to Sheilah, and if Vera told the k
where she was and maybe who she ¥
with ——” His voice trailed off.

Paul had been sure that Sheilah and Ber
were hiding, that it was only a question of tit
before they were found, but now it struck h
with shocking impact that some vicious, fa«

and what I’m afraid of is somebo®

less stranger had followed them. had snatchi}

them, had taken them God knew where.
Detective Luther’s hand was on his shoi

der and he heard the detective’s voice sayiri)

“Do me a favor, Mr. Starr. You can go no

but on the way out you’re going to run intot}}

newspaper boys. Don’t let out anything abe
the heroin, huh?”

Paul nodded, and moved in a daze towa
the door. As he went down the worn sto}
steps into the night he was blinded by flas!
bulbs. He groped his way, shaking his head)
questions, pushing through a barrier of

porters. Then he saw a friendly face; he si}

troubled gray eyes and heard a quick vo}
say, “I have a cab here, Mr. Starr.”

He reached for her hand and caught it, he
it as if he would never let it go. Lucille Bru

led him to the waiting taxicab. *

Lucille had waited with the other reporte
outside the police station. This was not her:

signment, but she had come because she cougl,

not stay away. In the glare of the flashbul
Paul Starr looked startled and shaken, t
there was a quality of bewilderment and»
tegrity in his face that gave him the appeal

a lost and despairing man in a world of stra) ;

gers. His voice was low and grateful as he sa
““Miss Brush, you’re a lifesaver.”

“T thought you might drop me off atl
place and keep the cab,” she said. “I kn
you'd want to get away fast.”

He gave the address to the driver, then s
tled back beside her, still holding her hand.
came out of there like a man in a fog. Tha
you, Miss Brush. I needed a friendly face.”

“Is there any news of the children?”

He hesitated an instant, then said, “I ca
tell you the reason, but the police have the id
the children may have been kidnaped.” !

“IT know,” she said. “Detective Luther t¢
me on the telephone. He asked me not tot
you, not to worry you.”

1 1962

can’t believe they’ve been kidnaped,”
iid. “It was broad daylight, a crowded
t. No, they ran away to hide. But what
tens me is that somebody might be hunt-
hem. God knows who. By now he must
y that Sheilah didn’t give the police any
mation. Maybe she doesn’t even know
ing, but he’ll have to find out. He'll have
‘sure.’ He brought out his pipe, unlit, and
he stem between his teeth. His face was
nd rigid in the semidarkness of the cab.
yse Homicide men had the idea Vera was
‘me before she died. I guess you know the
by now. I did see her Saturday afternoon
{ didn’t have the good sense to admit it

arranged a meeting to see if we could
| out something to make the kids hap-
* he said. ““Those detectives had the idea
tred a reconciliation and took her up to
\dkill and killed her.”

e asked, “Did you?”

/was the first time she had heard him
. The sound had the quality of release
iis voice was amused as he asked, “Young
do you put that question to all the mur-
is you meet?”

e flushed and said, “I meant did you offer
oncile?”

es, I did, but it was just an impulsive, un-
itic offer—on the spur of the moment.
rally she laughed in my face.”

e hesitated an instant before she asked,
1 did make the offer, though?”

jut of desperation, not emotion,” he said.
/ emotion was gone a long time ago, and
Jain fact is that Vera didn’t want to make
riage in the first place. She didn’t know
} Sheilah and Benjy kept us going for a

ou love them, don’t you?”

did Vera,” he said. ““Don’t mistake
ir. Starr ———"’ she began.

all me Paul,” he said. “Please. I feel I
you pretty well, hearing about you
| the kids. You've been wonderful to
). And believe me, I need you for a friend
need help.”

ll try to help, of course. But tell me—you
you didn’t think the children had been
nped. Then where are they? What hap-
4 _?

hey ran away,” he said. ““There was a rea-
you see. I’m going to tell you all of it. I'll
ito trust you, Lucille.”

‘ou can forget I’m a newspaper reporter,”
i id quietly.

ou know the scarf—the laughing fox? I
it to Sheilah for her tenth birthday.”
es, you told me.”

st Sunday I had a day with the kids and
»ve. them out to Grandkill,’ he said.
lah took off her scarf artdeft it in her
foom there and she thinks it was still
|. That’s why she ran away. She knew she
eft it in my house and then she read in
ewspaper that it had been used to stran-
era. So she ran away to protect me.”
‘understand that,’ Lucille said. ‘But the
? 1 mean how ——”

gave it to Vera Saturday afternoon to
nome to Sheilah,” he said. “I called Vera
hd made the date to talk matters over and
the scarf in the glove compartment of my
When I was driving her over toward
d Central I remembered it and told her
ok in the glove compartment. She put it
handbag.”

hen that explains it all,’ Lucille said with
® relief. “The fingerprints—everything.””

t would the police believe me?” he said.
i old them the scarf had been in my house
ed be convinced I had driven Vera up
€ and—and used it.”

|o that’s why you wanted me to put some
tof message to Sheilah in my story?” she

i‘ ;

was hoping to reach her somehow. She’s

2 it all alone, fighting the whole world.”
gers tightened on hers. “‘She’s brave

ndependent, and that worries me. She’ll

hiding, and as long as she does those

dare in danger. Somebody may be looking
1em.””

“Then we've got to do something.”

“Yes, but what?” he said. “I’ve been cudgel-
ing my brains, but it’s a dead end. If the po-
lice can’t find her, what can one man do, ex-
cept wait for her to call? And she wi// call. The
first step was to run away. That showed her
love. The next step will be to call, and that will
show her belief. | know she’ll call.”

“Is there someone at your house to take
calls?”

“The state police have a man there. Cora
Landis is there.”

“You can check with Mrs. Landis from my
apartment. But suppose Sheilah doesn’t call?
The news is on the street now that the police
picked you up. If she’s protecting you, she’ll
go on protecting you, won’t she? No, we have
to do something. We have to find her.”

“T like to hear that ‘we,’”’ he said.

She said, “Don’t you know I love those
kids too?”

1
Sie had committed herself, completely
trustful, and something in her voice made him
turn his head and look at her. He smiled and
said gently, “I can’t tell you how much that
means to me. You're a pretty wonderful girl,
Lucille.”

Strangely disconcerted, she said hastily,
“Being a newspaperwoman, I’ve learned a lot
about this city. A child sees things we would
never notice, and if | know Sheilah she'd figure
it out very carefully. She’d go where no one
would take notice. I think the first place to
look would be among other children, in some
playground or park.”

“At night?”

“She must have fuund a hiding place when
night came.” The cab turned the corner by
Mr. Hyman’s stationery store. “But not
around this neighborhood. Somebody would
recognize them. My idea is to get a map of the
city and check every park and playground.”
The cab stopped at No. 62 and she said, “Come
up to my apartment. You call Cora Landis
and then we can make plans.”

This was the building where Vera had lived,
he thought. He had never been farther inside
than the lobby, where he had met the children
for their excursions. As they went up to the
ninth floor in the elevator he said, ““We used
to live near Central Park, but that was a long
time ago. Of course Sheilah has been there
often since, to the zoo and the Mall and the
carousel, but I don’t think they’d be hiding
out among the trees in all that thunder and
lightning.”

She unlocked the door of 9-E, flicked on a
light and motioned to the telephone. He put
through a call to his house in Grandkill and
when a man’s voice answered he asked, “Is
Mrs. Landis still there?”

“Tl put her on.”

Cora Landis’s quick voice said, “Yes?”

“It’s Paul. They released me,” he said. “Any
news of the children?”

“Not a thing,” she said anxiously, ““and I’ve
been waiting for hours.”

“TI appreciate it,” he said gently. “You
might as well go on home, old girl.”

*Arthur’s been in touch,” she said. “He’s
just as worried as anybody. You know how
fond he is of those kids, as he was of Vera too.
Where are you now, Paul?”

“I’m at Miss Brush’s apartment,” he said.

“Oh, that reporter?”

“That very lovely girl,” he said.

Cora laughed softly, said, “Id better get
home to Arthur,” and hung up.

As Paul turned from the telephone Lucille
pointed to a small red object. “That little
truck belongs to Benjy. He was playing down
here yesterday.”

Paul looked at the toy truck. Then, quickly,
he turned his head away.

Lucille sensed his despair, his fear for Shei-
lah and Benjy. “The children have to eat,”
she said hurriedly. “They have to buy food.”

“Sheilah’s got money.”

“You told me,” she said. “Two-dollar
bills.”

“Yes, her birthday money.”

“She'll have to spend them, don’t you se¢?”’

He nodded. “Yes, it’s an idea.”

“We can go around asking if a little girl
spent a two-dollar bill,” she said eagerly. “If
we found just one two-dollar bill we’d know
we were on the trail.”

“Yes,” he said, “but this is a huge city.”

“You said Sheilah knew Central Park, for
instance.”

“That’s huge, too,” he said.

“But we wouldn’t have to comb the whole
park. We can find out where every concession
is, and then start checking.”

“But where could they hide in a park?” he
asked. ‘And in a thunderstorm?”

“T don’t know,” she said. “But I'll bet Shei-
lah has found a place.”’ She was excited, and

her eyes shone. He met her gaze and there
was a sense of closeness, of sharing. She felt
as if she had known this man a long time and
now, she knew, she trusted him. She said, “I’m
going to calla man I know in the park depart-
ment. He can get the home numbers of the
people who have park concessions and we can
call them, one by one, if it takes all night.
Somebody, somewhere, must have cashed a
two-dollar bill for Sheilah—and we’ll find
that somebody.”

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92
Paul should have found another girl before
his, Cora thought as she drove away from his
e. Lucille Brush looked as if she had a
head on her shoulders, and she had eyes that
sized you up in a probing sort ¢ f way.
She swung the wheel hard on a turn, barely
making it. Her reflexes weren’t what they used

to be, and it wasn’t that she had drunk much
tonight. But she knew it wasn’t alcohol that
gave her this feeling; she was convinced of
that. She knew what it was.

Arthur would be worried, she thought as
she nosed her car into the garage between his
car and the sports car he so rarely took out of
the garage—except this last weekend. There
was a slight, expectant smile on her lips as she
pushed the door open. Arthur was moving
about upstairs; she heard the noise of some-
thing falling. She went quickiy up and met
him as he came down the steps from the attic.
His face looked pink and flustered.

“looking for something, darling?” she

asked.

He stood for a moment eyeing her, and she
met his eyes steadily, still faintly smiling. Then
he moved past her down the stairs, and she

She nearly missed the turn into her own
driveway, a steep and winding descent to the
stone house which stood on a landscaped
plateau high above the river.

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followed him to the living room. There was a
decanter on a tray and as she moved toward it
he said in a weary tone, ““Haven’t you had
enough of that, Cora?”

She poured a shot glass full and lifted it to
her lips, sipped it delicately.

He stood scowling at her. Even in impa-
tience Arthur was a handsome man, she
thought. It was no wonder other women were
forever chasing him. “I wonder what you’re
up to, Cora,” he said.

“Don’t begin that, darling,” she said.

“Begin what?”

“That ‘what will Cora do next?’ routine.
Cora knows what she’s doing all the time, no
matter what somebody might happen to slip
into her drinks.”

“Oh, can’t you get rid of those depressive
fears?” he said. ““Why would anybody put
anything in your drinks?”

“T noticed that prescription in your medi-
cine chest,’ she said. “I watched the bottle
empty, day by day, and I called up the drug-
gist to find out what it was.”

“It was something my dentist prescribed
when I had that root-canal job done and had
so much pain,” he said.

“Every day there were fewer capsules—then
there were none,” she said almost dreamily.

His eyes narrowed a little. “Honey, you’ve
been taking them yourself.”

‘Like the telephone,” she went on. “It rings
and I answer and there’s nobody there. Then it
rings again and it’s the same story.”

“‘Honey, I was here in the house,” he said.
“I never heard it ring those times.”

“There’s a code, I found out,” she said.
‘The telephone repairmen use it. You can dial
some numbers and it will make your own
phone ring.”

“Cora, if you'd let that alcohol alone ——”
he began.

“And you’ve been having long conferences
with Dr. Bogardus,”’ she broke in. “Hallucina-
tions, I’ve been having. I lock myself in my
room and talk to myself. You told him that.”

‘I’ve been worried,”’ he said gently. ““What-
ever I do is for your own good. But there’s no
use talking about it now, in this mood.”

“What were you looking for just now,
dear?” she asked. “I wonder—could it pos-
sibly be a little blue overnight bag with the
initials VS on it?”

1
She saw that it had hit him. He sucked in
his breath and his face had a red, choked look.

*“You looked in the wrong place,” she went
on. “It’s not in the attic.”

‘““What did you do with it, Cora?”

“T disposed of it,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
She could hear his heavy breathing and she
smiled. “I mean I disposed of it so that if any-
body starts putting things in my drinks again,
or telling Dr. Bogardus lies about me, or
thinking that Cora would be better off in a nice
rest home—well, I disposed of it in such a way
that if anything like that ever happens it can
be found, you see.”

“Cora,” he said fiercely, ““you’re out of your
head.”

“Again,” she said. “Cora is out of her head
again.”

“Honey, I didn’t mean it that way,” he said
soothingly. “I’m sorry. I meant those were
pretty wild accusations, that’s all.”

“Did I make any accusations?’’ she asked.
“Of course I am really very curious how it
was a certain lady happened to turn up dead
on Riverside Drive.”

He sucked in his breath again, then burst
out, “I didn’t kill her!”

“IT know you never went to Washington this
weekend,” she said. “I know you came home
carrying an overnight bag with the initials
VS on it and full of black lingerie and silver
hairbrushes also marked VS. I don’t know
where you were, but I do know who was with
you. Arthur, and I know they found her dead
on Riverside Drive.”

He wiped the back of his hand across his
mustache, where perspiration glistened.

“Darling,” she said, ‘‘don’t you realize that
I’ve known about you and Vera for months?
Where you were the nights you told me busi-
ness kept you over in New York? Who that
perpetual out-of-town client was?”

“Cora ——” he began, and broke off.

“I’m listening,” she said.

LADIES’ HOME JOUR

He spread his hands. “What can I say?
I was involved with Vera. But I was trying
break it off, believe me.”
‘And you did,” she said. “Indeed you di
‘Please listen,” he said, and she saw
beads of sweat on his forehead. “I know ff
sounds odd, but she just disappeared Sa
night. I told her we had to break it off. Th
was a scene and I left her and took a walkig@
the boardwalk and when I came back she
gone. She just walked out. I waited all ni
and most of the day Sunday and then I droge
back here. I expected to see her again, nai
rally. Don’t you see? That’s why I still had]
bag. I was going to return it to her. I tho;
that she had taken a train back to New Yor
With a little surprise, Cora noticed that
still held the glass untouched in her hand¢
she finished it off. “Darling, I'm your W
for better or worse,” she said. “It can’t
much worse, can it?”
“Tell me, honey,” he said softly, “what
you do with that bag?”
“I'd stick with you through anything
Cora said.
“But I didn’t lay a hand on her, I swear.)
had an argument, yes, and while I was g¢
she disappeared. I waited awhile and the
called the operator and she said Vera had
a call. Somebody called her and she y
down to the lobby, apparently.”
““Where was this?” she asked.
He shrugged heavily. “Atlantic City.”
She said, “Arthur, who did Vera knoy
Atlantic City?”
He frowned. “How would I know?”
“Doesn't it seem a little odd she'd geta
there when she was off on a clandestine week!
end, darling?’’ She smiled and added gent

A practical man isa man who practices t
errors of his forefathers.
BENJAMIN DISR

“T think you’d better have a good story, a
convincing story.”
“T told you the truth,” he said.
“Do you care to tell it to the police?” sh}
asked. She shook her head. ““No, this is ye
story. This is what you'll say and I'll backy
up on every word of it. You never went af
where. You were here all weekend long, dot
with a touch of grippe, and I'll swear to
You canceled your Washington trip. The m
had the whole weekend off and I stayed he
and nursed you. I never left the house exe
for half an hour at the Herrings’ cockt
party.”
“But what did you tell people there?”
“Nobody even asked about you, darli
Everybody knew you were supposed to ge
Washington. Paul and the others se
“All right,” he said brusquely. “All
Cora.”
“So that will be your story,” she said, “at
I'll back you up on it.”
“No, it wouldn’t work. Vera called hom
said she was in Atlantic City. She talked
Sheilah on the telephone and she even gave
room number,” he said. “I heard her. Roe
Two Twenty-two. It seems two is the ki
lucky number.”
“So she knows the room number,” Col
said. “But she didn’t tell that to the police, @}
she?”
He shook his head. “I rushed down thered
soon as I heard what had happened to Ven
and the kids had run away. They hadn’t tt
those detectives anything at all. I tried tof
them, so that I could bring them up here.”
“But even if she had told the room numbt
what could they prove?’ Cora asked. “D
she give the name of the hotel too?”
“Knowing the room number would pif
down,” he said. “They could check evé
Room Two Twenty-two in Atlantic City af
find out which one was occupied by a wom
answering Vera’s description. I registe
under a phony name, but it’s my handwritif
and the clerk could describe me too.
wouldn’t take them long to come knockif)
at my door.”
“T doubt that Sheilah will even remember /f}
Cora said. “She’s only ten years old.”

SE —

1962 93

I had been that sma

” he said. “She'll remem
ra frowned thoughtfull
so?”

When the police find her,
i get out of her will be t
goom.,” * he said.

m we just have to fin
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y fair chance. When
for Paul this afterno
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Rat's a belated discovery. agra

took her in — arms and kissed her. = rs 5 a : 2 z
lired in her ear, “Everything will © NOW-—THE GREATEST SPREAD IN MARGARINE HISTORY!
t now.

. | know it will,” s

tepped back, h
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"a bag,

out of eae I couldn
it would ruin me.”
iinderstand, Arthur,”
started to speak.
watched him go, hea
jsteps. She smiled

ce overlooking t!
a rosy cloud still fai over th at .

was a late, dark hour of the night, a is r LU f |} }- @ Pe rfection! New BLuE BONNET is the
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New York City, and maybe too close, because
it could be a risky place for the innocent at
night. There were better than twenty-five acres
of it, uphill and downhill, with thickets of for-
sythia and dogwood and rhododendron and
all kinds of trees. All around the leaves rus-
tled and cast shadows.

As he led them along a path above the lake,

the radio hooked on his belt made a sound of

clearing its throat, then a voice said: “KEG
seven-three-oh calling mobile unit thirty-two.
Inform Mr. Starr that the search in the zoo
area is negative. Same for the area around the
pond and the Heckscher Playground. Search is
being continued in all sections of the park.”

“Tl have a look in the grotto,’ Schneider
said. “You stay here with the young lady, Mr.
Starr.”

Paul watched the flashlight play over rocks,
search out dark recesses, as Schneider covered
the area thoroughly. When he returned he
said, ‘‘They couldn’t be in there, Mr. Starr.”

Paul raised his head, called suddenly, “‘Shei-
lah—Benjy!”

The sound was startlingly loud in the still
night and echoed over the lake. Patrolman
Schneider broke the uneasy silence that fol-
lowed. ‘“‘No harm in trying.”

They walked on again. In the dark areas
Schneider flashed his light and occasionally
left the path to examine a rock outcrop, re-
turning each time with a shake of his head.
“You can see how it is,” he said. “It’s like two
little needles in the hay.” He let his hand rest
on Paul’s shoulder. ““Why don’t you and the
young lady just sit down on that bench and
take a rest? I'll go on checking the likely
places.”

Lucille saw Paul’s face and squeezed his
hand. “Just because they’re not here doesn’t
mean somebody else found them, darling,” she
said. ‘This is a tremendous park, you know.”

They walked on in silence. The radio voice
spoke again: “KEG seven-three-oh calling
mobile unit thirty-two. Southern area of the
park negative. Search being continued in the
area around the Loch.”

“That’s way uptown,” Schneider said. “I
don’t know, Mr. Starr. When dark came down
don’t you suppose those kids got out of the
park?”

‘“Maybe I should call my park-department
man back,” Lucille said. ““He’s still working
on it, and maybe Sheilah cashed a two-dollar
bill somewhere eise. That would help.”

“The nearest public telephone booth is over
at the lake,’ Schneider said.

They followed the path to the lighted tele-
phone booth. Lucille made her call. “As the
word goes here in Central Park, negative,’ she
said. ‘““But they have rolling concessionaires,
men who push their carts in certain areas, and
they haven’t run all of them down yet.”

Paul said dejectedly, “It doesn’t look good,
Lucille.”

““Now don’t despair,” she said, and touched
his shoulder sympathetically. ““Sheilah is just
too smart for everybody. She’s a regular fox.”

i made them both think of the laughing fox,
of the scarf that had choked the life from
Vera, and they moved in silence to a bench
overlooking the still lake. Paul sat bent for-
ward in a way that Lucille had come to iden-
tify as a symptom of despondency. She said
softly, “It’s late. They’re sleeping somewhere.
In the morning she’ll call.”

““We know they reached the park safely,”’ he
said. “But they could have been followed,
then, when they were alone and out of any-
one’s view

“Don’t think about it,’’ she broke in. “‘It’s
only Detective Luther’s wild idea.”

“Coming in on the plane I was thinking
about having them back home in Grandkill,”
Paul said. ““But then I landed and found they
were missing—gone.”’ He sighed wearily. ‘‘I
wonder if Sheilah told Benjy about Vera.”

‘“He’s only six,” Lucille said. “He'll adjust.
Just give him lots of love. You know Sheilah
will help. And I’m glad you’ll be taking them
out of New York. I always feel sorry for kids
in New York.”

“You don’t like New York?”

“Like it?” she said. “I love it! I enjoy
newspaper work. It’s exciting, but I’ve had
enough of it to know Id give it up in a sec-
ond,”

“For what?” he asked. “‘For a guy?”

“For a guy,”’ she said.

“Any special one?”

“Well, that’s hard to say.”

“Take the advice of an old hand,” he said.
“Tf it’s hard to say, say no.”

“Oh, I’m naturally cautious,’ she said.
“T’m the sort of girl who will have her nugget
properly assayed when she finds it. Nothing
is pure gold, is it?”

He smiled. “Someday try prospecting out
in Rockland County. I can give you a pack
mule and a grubstake any weekend.” He
added seriously, ‘““You will come out and see
us in the country, won’t you?”

HERE COMES
COLLEGE—
WHO WILL PAY
THE BILLS?

How much will it cost to put
Mike, age 3, through college in
1976? With three college-bound
teenagers in the family already
Major and Mrs. Randolph
Stevens face six years of having
two in college at the same time.
Read about their problem.

By Glenn White
IN THE JUNE JOURNAL

“Ask me,” she said.

He turned and looked into her eyes. Then
he bent and kissed her lips, gently. It was the
moment of experiment and question, the first
kiss—a tender moment, and climactic in this
long night of strain and fear and worry. Fora
short moment they were a man and a girl ona
park bench, like lovers in any park. Then, be-
hind them, the law cleared its throat. As Lu-
cille drew quickly away from Paul, Patrolman
Schneider said, “‘Excuse me. I just came down
to give you the latest. It’s all negative, I’m
sorry to say. But I’m not through looking in
the Rambles yet. When daylight comes we'll
find those two, if they’re here, but at night
it’s pretty hopeless. Mr. Starr, you look shot.
Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

“He’s right, Paul,’ Lucille said.

He shook his head. ‘“‘No. I know there’s not
much I can do, except walk the park until
dawn and call their names in dark places, but
I want to do that. I couldn’t sleep.”’

“All right,” she said. “I'll walk with you.”

“You got to be careful in this park at night,
lady,”’ Schneider warned.

“Lucille, the officer is right,’ Paul said.
“TP’m sending you home.” He took her arm

OOOO

and steered her toward the Seventy-second
Street entrance. “If there’s any news I’ll call
you.”

“Immediately?” she asked. “‘No matter
what the hour?”

“Immediately,” he said.

He signaled a cruising cab on Fifth Avenue.
She said, ““Take care, darling, and call me first
thing in the morning.”

He watched the cab move away, then
walked slowly back to where the policeman
was waiting. “I'll walk back up toward the
Ramble with you. It will be dawn before too
long.”

They walked on together. Suddenly Schnei-
der’s radio rasped again and spoke in a crisp
and ominous tone: “‘All units please listen.
If Mr. Starr is with you, hold him. He’s wanted
by the Homicide Squad. Hold him and callin.”

Patrolman Schneider’s eyes were police-
man’s eyes again as he said, ““You heard it,
Mr. Starr.”

“Yes, I heard it,’ Paul said wearily. “I had
it out with the Homicide Squad earlier to-
night.”

r i

ie ‘approached the public booth from
which Lucille had made her call earlier and
Paul asked, ‘“‘Do you mind if I make a tele-
phone call? I want to find out what this is all
about.”

Schneider hesitated, then nodded.

Paul dialed the number Detective Luther
had given him.

Frank Luther came on. “‘Mr. Starr? Where
are you?”

“Tm in Central Park and I’ve just been col-
lared by a policeman,” Paul said with resigna-
tion. ‘What is it this time?”

‘““Haven’t you seen a newspaper?” the de-
tective asked.

“No, not lately.”

““Let me read you a headline,’ Frank said.
““Husband Had Murder Scarf.’ How about
that?”

Paul’s heart sank. ‘What newspaper is it?”

“The Record-Star. An exclusive story,”
Frank said. ““They say that scarf with the
laughing fox belonged to Sheilah and they say
it was in your house in the country as late as
last Friday. They say Sheilah left it there when
she was visiting you Sunday a week ago.”

““Yes, that’s'so,”” Paul/said. ““But———=

“You admit it?”

“Of course I admit it,’ he said. ““When I
saw Vera Saturday I gave it to her to return to
Sheilah.””

“You didn’t mention that before, Mr.
Starr,” Frank said coldly. ““Let me speak to
the officer with you.”

Paul held out the receiver to Patrolman
Schneider, feeling chilled and shaken. Lucille
alone had known, he thought. He had told no
one else. She had led him on with pretended
sympathy and he had talked his head off. He
should have known better. She was a reporter
and news was her job, but he had considered
this a personal thing and he felt betrayed.

Sheilah awakened in the still air of dawn, in
the breathless quiet before the birds began to
chirp.

Benjy’s voice said, thick with sleep, ‘““Shee?”’

“I’m here,” she said. ‘““Go back to sleep.””

But he crawled up beside her. ““Gee, that
bed was hard. I’ve got a crick in my neck.”

“Tll rub it out,’ Sheilah said. “Turn
around.”

His eyes were solemn, and his underlip
stuck out a little as she massaged the back of
his neck. “You hungry?’ she asked, and
opened the duffel bag. ““Here, take a cheese
cracker.”

He only nibbled at it, and when Fritzie
moved up beside him and nuzzled his hand he
gave the little dog most of the cracker.

“Sleep some more, Benjy,’ Sheilah said.
“Tl call you later.”

He lay down and soon he slept again. Shei-
lah hoped he would sleep a long time because
there was no hurry this morning. She wanted
to wait until people began to fill up the park—
babies in perambulators with their mothers or
their nurses, kids on roller skates, people
walking their dogs. On a sunny day in June
there were bound to be a zillion other kids.

After a time she heard voices and she awak-
ened Benjy. He sat up with a jerk, but he

i
;

| r

smiled when Fritzie climbed into his lap. She
lah said, “We'll go out and get washed up an 1
then come back for breakfast. Hand me the)
comb out of that duffel bag and I’ll fix your!
hair. We want to look tidy.”
Outside the cave she brushed him off an i
smoothed her dress, then she took the leas
and with the little dog pulling hard she fol
|

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

lowed a path that led them to the comfo;
stations, and showed Benjy which was hi
She made an effort to smooth her hair. but ¢
cided it would be better to put on her scar
it covered up her hair and made her lo
lots neater. Nobody would ever guess, s|
thought, that she had been sleeping in a ca
right here in Central Park.

Benjy was waiting outside, and they h
started up the slope when they came face
face with a policeman.

Patrolman Horace Schneider’s tour of du
was nearly over and he was tired. He was cc
vinced those kids had scooted out of the pa
before it got dark last night. But he saw t
children coming, with a dachshund on a leas
a little girl about ten, yes, and a boy arour
six years old. The girl was wearing a scarf oy
her head and he could not see the color of k
hair.

“Benjy, hold onto my hand,” Sheilah sai
“Hold tight and don’t say a word.”

“Yes, Shee,”’ he said.

““And call me Lolly. Remember that.”

She walked straight up to the policem:
and asked with her brightest smile, ‘‘Would
be all right if we let our little dog off f
leash?”

“It’s against the regulations,’ Patrol
Schneider said.

“But he’s been cooped up all night in ¢
apartment,”’ Sheilah said. “‘Gee, it seems meg
not to let Fritzie run a little.”

“You kids are out pretty early, aren
you?” Schneider asked.

“Our father dropped us off at the Mall
his way downtown to work,” Sheilah said.

““What’s your name, little girl?”

“Eulalia,” Sheilah said. “‘Eulalia Hadle
Why?”

“That’s a nice little dog you’ve got,” h
said, stooping to pat the dachshund’s hea
while his fingers groped for the license. ““H
old are you—what was that name again?”

Sheilah laughed freshly. ““Oh, just call t
Lolly. Everybody calls me Lolly.”

‘“‘And they call me Butch,” Benjy said hel
fully, but Sheilah squeezed his hand hat
meaning keep his mouth shut.

“Where do you live, Lolly?” Schneic
asked, although Sheilah knew perfectly
he was looking at the brass plaque on the dog
collar that gave the name and address of MV
Robert Hadley.

“Oh, over on Park Avenue,” Sheilah sa
grandly.

Patrolman Schneider nodded, stood ere
“How old are you, Lolly?” °

“T’m twelve,” Sheilah said. “‘Butch is seve
Why?”

“That’s a nice little dog you’ve got
Schneider said. “But you keep him on f
leash or you'll lose him. He'll run away.”

“Oh, Fritzie wouldn’t run away,” Sheila
said. “But I'll keep him on his leash, I prot
ise.”

Patrolman Schneider watched them as th
moved on, his forehead furrowed in a frow

Te, turned off toward the Ramble. In u
der the weeping-willow tree they went, ai
past the long, reaching arms of the forsythia
the thick barrier of rhododendron, and the
they stooped by its waxy leaves to enter t
cave. Benjy was first, already on his hands at
knees, but he drew back and said in alam
““Somebody’s in there, Shee.”

Sheilah stooped, saw a young boy who was
stuffing his mouth with cheese crackers.
had the duffel bag open and was helping
self.

“Hey, you come out of there,” Sheilah said,

“T will not,” the boy said. “This is my cav

“It is not your cave,” Sheilah said. “I
our cave. I found it a long time ago.”

“It’s mine,” the boy said. ““You go away

Sheilah said warningly, ‘““My little dog
bites.” There was no response from the cave)

=—=—y Oo a ee >

CONTINUED ON PAGE

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96
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 94

and she said, “If you don’t come out of there
I’m going to take my dog off his leash.”

There was a moment’s silence, then the boy
said, ‘‘All right, ’m coming out.”

Careful,”’ Sheilah said. “He might just bite,
Now whoa, Fritzie. Don’t pull like that. Don’t
bite that boy unless I tell you.”

The boy came out on his hands and knees,
giving the little dog a wide berth. Surprisingly,
and delightfully to Sheilah, Fritzie growled
and looked very fierce. “All right,” the boy
said. “All right, keep your old cave. I know
a better one, anyhow.”’ He edged around the
rhododendron and was gone.

Sheilah said, ‘‘Get inside, Benjy, quick.”

Once they were inside the cave Sheilah
picked up the duffel bag and said, “Well,
there’s still plenty here for breakfast, but
we've got to hurry.”

‘‘Hurry where, Shee?”

“You saw that kid,’’ Sheilah said. “He’s a
tattletale kid. You can tell. He'll run straight
to his mother or to that policeman we saw and
he’ll tattle for sure, so I think we’d better get
out of here.”

““Where will we go?”

“We'll go and walk our dog on the Mall,
like everybody else, and then we'll go to the
zoo and the monkey bars and the carousel.”

“OK,” Benjy said.

When they had eaten she packed the duffel
bag and tucked it in the crevice. It wouldn’t do
to carry the bag along, and they had better
leave their skates behind, too, she thought. If
they were going to be walking a dog they had
better be doing just that and nothing else.
Fritzie behaved as if he had been their dog all
his life.

People were streaming into the park now.
The children went past the band shell and fol-
lowed a path to the carousel. Up on a little
hill called the Kinderberg was the chess house
where they had gone several times with daddy
to watch people playing chess and checkers.

Benjy said with disappointment, “The car-
ousel’s all closed up, Shee.”

“It will open pretty soon,” Sheilah said.
“You go sit on one of those benches. I’m going
to let you have one of my two-dollar bills, and
when they open up the carousel you can be the
very first rider and pick the best horse.”

““How about you, Shee?’’

“T couldn’t take Fritzie on the carousel,”
she said. “I think maybe I'll walk back up
there to the chess house. I can see the carousel
from up there and I'll be watching. If anybody
asks who you’re with, say your nana is around
somewhere.”

“OK, and I’m Butch Hadley,” Benjy said.
“The champeen rodeo rider, Butch Hadley.
You heard of him, Shee?’

“You bet,” she said.

Occasionally, from the chess house, Sheilah
glanced back toward the carousel, and it was
one of these watchful, protective glances that
ended in a frozen stare. She saw a man hold-
ing Benjy by the arm, talking to the boy. He
wasn’t a policeman, though. At least he didn’t
have a uniform, but neither had those two
men in the apartment—those detectives.

““Why sure you remember me, Benjy,’’ the
man was saying. “I’m your Uncle Claude.”

Benjy considered a moment. ‘‘Let me see
your tattoo.”

The man turned up the sleeve of the yellow
shirt he was wearing and there it was on his
wrist, the mermaid with the green tail. Benjy
looked up and smiled and said, ‘‘Hello, Uncle
Claude.”

“T’ve been looking for you, kiddo,”
Claude said. “‘How are you?
sister? Where is she?”

“T don’t know,”’ Benjy said. ““Around ”

“You mean you were all alone here?”

“IT was waiting for the carousel to open,”
Benjy said.

“I remember you were telling me how much
you liked the merry-go-round,” Uncle Claude
said. ‘And the monkey house. I was over
there first, to see if you were at the
monkeys.”’

“We saw them yesterday,” Benjy said.

‘Say, you know something?”’ Uncle Claude
said. ‘Maybe you can help me. I lost some-
thing.”

Uncle
And how’s your

looking

Benjy was concerned. ‘‘What did you lose,
Uncle Claude?’’

‘‘Maybe it’s not lost,” he said. “It was a
package and I think maybe I left it in your
apartment and your mother put it away some-
where. A package about this size.”” He made
an oblong with his hands. “Wrapped up in
plain brown paper with red string tied around
it. | wonder if you happened to notice it.”

“You mean the snow?” Benjy asked.

“Huh?” said Uncle Claude. ““Yeah, the
snow. I guess I mean the snow, all right. What
do you know about it?”

“The snow men took it away,” Benjy said.

“The snow men? Who were they? Friends
of your mother’s?”

“Oh, no,” Benjy said. “The men in white
caps—you know, the men who take the snow
away. But they were just pretend.”

“Pretend?” Uncle Claude said.

“T was playing snow removal,” Benjy said.

“With what was in that package?”

“Yes, it was down at the bottom of mom-
my’s swipes and I borrowed it to play snow
removal.”

Uncle Claude grinned, patted Benjy’s shoul-
der. ““Where is it?”

“Tt’s in my dump truck,”’ Benjy said.

“In the apartment?”

““No. I was playing in Nine-E and I forgot
and left it there.”

‘‘Where is this Nine-E?”

“Down below us,” Benjy said.
Lucille—I mean Miss Brush—lives.”

Uncle Claude laughed very softly. “Well, I
guess we'd better just take a run down there,
Benjy. We'll get your little dump truck and
we'll have some fun. OK? We'll come back
for Sheilah later.”

Benjy was concerned about Shee, but Uncle
Claude was a grownup; he knew he had to do
what his uncle said. They walked away.

Sheilah watched them go from the shadows.
At first it had given her a terrible fright, not
knowing who the man was, but she saw that
there was something familiar in the way he
walked and the way he smiled and she knew
who he was. Uncle Claude had found Benjy
and now it would mean they would come look-
ing for her. She had better get away fast with
little Fritzie. But she mustn’t hurry. She must
act like a little girl walking her dog, especially
if she saw a policeman. She must get her duffel
bag and hide again.

“Where

Back at the apartment Joe, the doorman,
came running. “Benjy, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me,”’ Benjy said.

“Say, this is good news,” Joe said.
Sheilah?”’

“Don’t bother the kid now,”’ Uncle Claude
said. ““He’s pretty upset, but everything is un-
der control. Anybody up in the apartment?”

Joe shook his head. ‘‘No, they locked it up.”

““Where’s

“How about the lady in Nine-E. Is she
home, do you know?”

““Miss Brush? I haven’t seen her go out.
She’ll be real happy. She looked all over for
those kids.”

“Come on, Benjy,’ Uncle Claude said.

The sound of the buzzer awakened Lucille.
She slipped out of bed, pulling on a robe as she
went, opened the door and saw a thin man in
the corridor. With him, grinning at her, was
Benjy.

She dropped to her knees and pulled him
into her arms. “Benjy, darling, ’'m so happy
to see you! Where is Sheilah? Are you all
right? Where’s your father?”

“T don’t know,” Benjy said.

‘I found him at the merry-go-round, miss,”
the man said. “I brought him straight down
here and the doorman told me you were
home.”

“Oh, thank you,”
much.”

““He’s my Uncle Claude,’ Benjy volun-
teered. ““He’s got a mermaid tattooed on his
wrist and he’s a sailor.”

“I’m Vera’s brother,
explained.

“But where’s Sheilah?”’

“‘She’s in the park somewhere, Benjy says. I
figure we can go back and find her.”

““We were in a cave,” Benjy said. “We slept
there all night, me and Shee and Fritzie, and
we had cheese crackers to eat and peanut but-
ter and lollipops and ——”

“Oh, heavens,” Lucille broke in. “I’m going
to fix you a proper breakfast and then we'll go
find Sheilah and locate your father.”

“TI can tell you where to look, miss,’ the
man said. ‘“‘That’s one reason I brought Benjy
down here to your place.” He took a news-
paper from under his arm and she saw the
headline: HUSBAND HAD MuRDER SCARF.

“What?” she cried. ““Let me see that.”’ The
newspaper was the Record-Star. The story was
under George Tompkins’s by-line and her
eyes skimmed over the lead: “scarf in his home
in Grandkill . . . belonged to his daughter. . .
left there the previous Sunday... .”

The man said, “I expect they’ve picked him
up by now.”

Lucille flew to the telephone and dialed the
number of the Record-Star, asked for Bob
Stout. She said, almost in tears, “Bob, I just
saw the late edition. Where did that story
come from? That story about the scarf? I have
to know.”

“Seems a woman called in after midnight
and said her conscience had been bothering
her all day long. She cleans for Mr. Starr out
there in the country and she saw that scarf in
the house. She felt she had to let the news out,
but she didn’t want to go to the police and sne
didn’t want her name used. The rewrite man
called our string correspondent out in Rock-

she said, “thank you so

”

miss,’ the man

“And here she is on her twenty-seventh birthday.”

woman’s house and check, then he wrote thi
new lead and we ran the story. Why? Any
thing wrong with it?” ;

““How about Mr. Starr?”

“How about any guy who murders his wife
Homicide has got him. They picked him up i
Central Park early this morning.”

She hung up, hating the cynicism. Une
Claude had Benjy’s little red dump truck i
his hands and the boy was saying, “That
where I left it, Uncle Claude.”

“Left what?” Lucille asked.

““He was asking what happened to hi
snow,’ Claude Boggs said. “It seems he hai
this little truck full of snow.”

Lizete smiled. “It was pretty dirty snd
Benjy. I guess Susan just flushed it down tg
drain and washed your little truck out nice a
clean.”

Claude Boggs stared at her, wet his lip;
“Flushed it down the drain?”

“Or dumped it in the garbage, maybe

“And the garbage?” he said in a hollo
voice. “That was thrown out?”

“Oh, of course,” Lucille said. ““That wa
yesterday. I’m sorry, Benjy, but I’ve got
whole sugar bowl full of fresh snow and ye
can have all you want.”

“That’s OK,” Benjy said. “I’m not playin
that game any more. Uncle Claude wanted
know.”

“Darling, where will we find Sheilah?”’

“T guess she went back to the cave.”

“Where is this cave, Benjy?”

“It’s in the Rambles.”

“But we were in the Rambles last nigh
looking for you,’’ Lucille cried. ‘‘Where
this cave? Can you find it?”

“Oh, sure I can find it—I think.”

“Then I'd better call the Homicide Squad
Lucille said, and went quickly back to t
telephone.

She dialed the number, and when she aske
for Detective Luther the man at the other e
said, “Sorry, youcan’t talk to Detective Luth
just now.”

“But this is urgent,’ she said. “Tell ht
Miss Brush is calling, please. I have very in
portant news about the Starr case.’ 22 a

“The Starr case? OK, hang on.’

Lucille turned her head, hearing the closif
of the front door, and Benjy said, ‘Une
Claude went.”

““Went where?”

“T don’t know,”’ Benjy said. “I think he w
mad at me.”

The boy was on his knees, pushing the litt
red truck. He looked very solemn, very sa
with his underlip outthrust, and Lucille sa
softly, ““Darling, I’m sorry about your snow
should have told Susan not to touch it.”

“Oh, I don’t care,’ he said. “It was Une
Claude who wanted it.”

“Uncle Claude did? Why?”

“Well, it was his,’ Benjy said.

“T don’t understand, Benjy.”

“He left a package with mommy and
opened it,”’ Benjy said. “It made pretty go
snow and I was just using it in my dun
truck. I was going to put it back.”

Lucille was puzzled. ““Where was this pac
age, Benjy?”

“Tn the box with mommy’s swipes. Mo
put it away for him,” Benjy said. |

A voice came on the telephone, low-pitch
and weary, “Detective Luther.”

She said, “Listen, I’ve got exciting ne
have Benjy here, safe and sound.”

For the first time she heard efnotion in th
detective’s voice. ““That’s great,’ he sal
“‘Where did you find him?”

“His uncle found him at the carousel
Central Park, and we’re going after Sheilah
Lucille said. ““But tell me—what about N
Starr?”

“‘Who is this uncle? Where’s the little gi
Why didn’t he bring her in too?”

“He never saw her,” Lucille* said. “
Benjy knows where to find her.”

“Tell me about this uncle,” Frank said.

‘*He’s Benjy’s Uncle Claude, he’s a sail
He was looking for Benjy to ask him abo
package that he left with Mrs. Starr and

““What’s that?”

CONTINUED ON PAGE

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{NUED FROM PAGE 51

had been over six. But she was listening
to the tone of that voice, to its deep rich
ith, unmistakably sincere. Despite her-
despite her knowledge that it was caused
sr father’s relief at not being saddled with
»ver Easter, she found herself reacting to
|; she had always reacted to it. One kind
| from him, even one pleasant word,
==

‘want to see you, too, dad,” she said.

low about coming out to the house to-
'? Irene will be delighted to see you.”

2 was forced to smile, remembering how
ted her father’s beautiful, beautifully
Med wife—his present wife—had been on
st (and it was going to be her /as?) visit.
at a mess that child is!’ she’d overheard
ny to a friend. “And I don’t mean just her
s and her hair.”

hanks, dad, but Jane’s family is expecting

\ what do you think of that, Jim? I
{i Bowers and he said to toss it right back
jem. . . . Claire, listen! Meet me at the

ist have a drink together.”

e. They could at least have a drink to-
ir. She said she’d be there and hung up.
as feeling a good deal better as she
ed her bag in a locker, and rode the
ng stairway up to the street. She was go-
) have a drink with her dad—their first
together. The invitation was proof that
ather recognized the fact that she had
up.

ybe, she thought with a surge of hope,
le, with that recognition, things would be
ent now. All around. Up to now, her fa-
ad regarded her as a child. Her father
r mother both. Maybe the trouble
had been—that they just weren’t much
with children. Or much interested in

la way, you couldn’t blame them, she
isht, as she wandered along, looking into
, killing time. They had been married
they were very young, her parents—the
some irresponsible Charles and the rav-
irrepressible Laura. They were products
age, a decade, the much publicized and
entalized ’twenties. Everybody was very
2 then. Everybody was very young and
nd lost and determined to remain lost
oing on a big sustained bender, because
hing was cracking up anyway, wasn’t it?
hy not have a little fun while you could?
at did Charles, what did Laura know
raising a child? What did they care ? By
e she made her decidedly belated and, no
, unplanned appearance upon the scene
twelve years of careful, successful avoid-
what bad luck!), the twenties were long
but Charles and Laura were still living
departed decade. Lauraswas engrossed
aining young and gay and beautiful,
es in scraping together the remnants of
mily business the depression had all but
ed. For.the role of parent—even if she
been a disappointment to them; even if
ad turned out beautiful and brilliant and
ning, as they were, and as was only to be
ted in a child of theirs—they had neither
‘clination nor the time.

remembered, with the clarity and the
hat always accompanied the memory,
as a child, she had been left alone so
/ SO many nights, at home, in strange ho-
oms. “Darling, daddy and I are going
Ve couldn’t get a sitter, but you’ll be all
iwon’t you?” Waiting impatiently for her
y it was all right, while she wouldn’t an-
only turn her face to the wall. “Of
> you will. Mrs. Karasec, that nice lady
) the hall, has the key and will look in.”
many nights. So many nights when, un-
fo find a Mrs. Karasec, having no al-
ive but to stay in—a prospect they
*t face—they dragged her along with
To restaurants, to bars, to parties that
on tilt dawn.

lop fidgeting, Claire!” . . . “Have another
eam?” ... “Stop leaning on me!” ...
can’t you sleep there? The music isn’t
. . Never mind all those coats.”

They were never deliberately cruel or mean.
It would be wrong to say that. They just sim-
ply weren’t cut out for this particular job.
When Charles’s business came to life, and they
were on velvet again, she was shipped off to a
succession of private schools and summer
camps, where they occasionally wrote her, in-
quiring into her activities and health. A few
times they said they’d be up to see her. In-
variably, at the last moment, an expensive
present would arrive, with their regrets.

It was the best thing, though, that could
have happened to her, getting away from
home. Sure, it was rough, at first; she was shy,
unsure, afraid—terrified at the prospect of
offering her friendship and having it turned
down. But gradually, with the help of a per-
ceptive instructor, and with her acceptance by
the other girls as a well-meaning, if somewhat
peculiar, kid, she began to relax, to stop press-
ing so hard, and from there on things steadily
improved. She went out for the hockey team
and the drama group, and though she didn’t
make them, she made some good friends in
the process, Jane Furman and Ginny Hender-
son and others, and they sometimes took her
home with them over holidays, and their par-
ents—especially when she apologized for not
being able to reciprocate—insisted that she
come again.

Were not just being polite,” Mrs. Fur-
man once told her. ““We want you here.” That
was the summer she had spent with the Fur-
mans, when her father was in Europe and her
mother was in Nevada getting the divorce.

“There’s plenty of room,” Mr. Furman
said.

“Gosh, thanks. It’s awfully nice of you.
But [ve already stayed much too ——”

“Why don’t you knock it off? You're stay-
ing, and that’s that.” This from Neil Furman,
Jane’s older brother. Neil was tall and thin
and intense, a refreshingly un-Yalish Yale
man, of the opinion that he was hard and
cynical, which, of course, he wasn’t—just the
reverse. With all the girls at his disposal he
had, for some unaccountable reason—pure
charity, she first had thought—apportioned a
little time to her.

“You know something?” Neil told her one
night at a dance, grabbing her as she was
about to duck into the ladies’ room for the
third time, to hide her isolation. ““You haven’t
got the remotest sense of rhythm, and that
dress is absolutely wrong for you, but I
wouldn’t go so far as to say you're a total loss.
In fact, if pressed’””—he stared down at her, a
decidedly uncharitable stare—“I’d say you
were. . . rather nice.”

She smiled to herself-now, suddenly feeling
good, feeling fine. Oh, why don’t you forget it ?
she said to the compartment in her mind that
still brooded, still crouched in its cell, review-
ing the past. That’s all ancient history. Yow re
a big girl now, a college student, no less ; youre
meeting dad for a cocktail. Everything’s differ-
ent now; yow’re practically supporting yourself,
standing on your own two feet; he doesn’t hold
all the cards any more. You want this, you know
you want it, otherwise you wouldn't have called
him. So give it a chance.

She arrived at the Croyden at precisely five-
thirty. The plush, sedate lounge was fairly
crowded. She took a table at the far end,
where she could watch the door, and ordered
a Pink Lady. At the next table a very pretty
girl, about her own age, was having an ani-
mated discussion with an older woman.

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What subject, she wondered, should she
discuss with Charles? She didn’t have a boy
friend, unless—wishful thought of the cen-
tury—you could count Neil. Which you
couldn’t. Better stick to your studies. Or the
world situation. Let’s see

The first sip of the drink quickly warmed
her, sent a glow to her fingertips. Take it easy,
kid; you aren't used to this. When she saw her
father come in, she raised her arm. Charles
smiled and started over. Claire noted, with
pride and—why not admit it?—a touch of
envy—she’d always envied him—the number
of heads that turned and followed his progress
across the floor. Back in the Class of ’27,
Charles had been known as a “‘smooth-look-
ing apple’—an expression that was, if any-
thing, even more applicable today. The sprin-
kle of gray in his hair, the deepening lines
around his mouth only enhanced his appear-
ance; without them, he would have looked too
youthful, too unseasoned for his years. He
came up, his topcoat over one arm.

“Sorry to be late, dear.”” He bent and kissed
the mouth she tentatively raised. ‘“‘Just as I
was leaving—never fails—Washington called.
Seems as if we ran afoul of one of their
regulations.”

“Plenty of them to run afoul of these days,
I guess.”

“Yes, but this one!... Eddie, will you check
these, please?’’ Charles gave his hat and coat
to the waiter. ‘This one takes the well-known
cake.” Charles spread his freed hands, with
the vigor, the enthusiasm that emanated from
him whenever he discussed business, particu-
larly his own. “The superbrain that dreamed
up this a

“You're looking very well, dad,” she said.
Mentally, remembering how he hated to be in-
terrupted (even though he constantly inter-
rupted others), she kicked herself. She had
meant to change the subject—gosh, they
hadn’t even had a chance to say hello!—but
not to bring Charles up so short. His hands
paused in midair.

“You're looking well yourself,” he said, and
sat down. “‘Your hair’s different.”

“Yes. A little.”

“And you’re not so—you’re slimmer.”

“Just minus the baby fat. Dad ——”

“Yes?” Charles signaled the waiter. “Tell
me what you’ve been doing.”

“Oh, nothing much.”’ Self-consciously, she
looked down. As usual, she had fumbled.
Given the impression that she wanted the
conversation turned on herself.

‘*‘What courses are you taking?”

a
She looked into the glass. She had written
Charles at least three letters, in detail, about
the courses she was taking.

“Just general stuff now. Later on—dad,
this is something I’d like to ask you about.
Later on, I may major in ——”

*‘Scotch on the rocks,’ Charles said to the
waiter. ““You ready for another one, Claire?”

“‘No, thanks. One is about my limit.”

“Good idea. When I was your age —— Oh,
when I think of the stuff we drank. Straight
from the bathtub.”

“Didn’t seem to hurt you. Dad, what I
wanted your opinion on ——”’

“Yes? . . . Oh, Eddie!” to the departing
waiter. “I left my cigarettes in my coat pocket.”
He looked around. “Claire, a friend of mine
may join us. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.”

“When I think of the bilge we stowed
away!” Charles said, with a little mock shud-
der. ““Anything with a kick in it. I remember
once we made a batch of gin in chem lab. This
fellow and I got together ——”’

It was a pretty amusing story. Charles told
it well. Claire listened attentively—as atten-
tively as she could. She hadn’t really wanted
so much Charles’s opinion of the career she
was contemplating. What she wanted was for
Charles to have an opinion, to —— Oh, what
was the use? She molded her features into an
attentive, appreciative mask, steeling herself
against the old sickness, the old loneliness, the
numbing, pervading emptiness that was back
in her now again, engulfing her. And she’d been
so sure she had it licked!

“‘Have you been out to see your mother?”
Charles asked. The story was over, and she
had managed to laugh in just the right places.

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“Just that time in September. On my way
back east.”

““How was she?”

“Fine.”

“You stay long?”

She pretended to think. It had been only a
few hours she had spent at Laura’s place on
the North Shore. Poor Laura. Even that had
been too much. What an embarrassment it
must have been for her to have a fully grown
daughter—horrors, now a competitor!—ap-
pear on the scene. What a bore! When the
oldest and most obnoxious of the men who
hung about followed Claire out to the kitchen,
mother nearly flipped her henna lid.

“Not very long. ... Look, dad,” she said, as
Charles kept turning and glancing around,
“your friend . . . you probably have business
to discuss. And I have to ——”

“No, no. He’s just coming out to the house
for dinner. You absolutely sure you can’t
come too?”

She explained again about the Furmans.
The excuse sounded feeble, even to herself,
but Charles nodded and smiled.

“Ah,” he said, “Furman. That the college
boy you wrote me about? I understand.”

There was nothing, unfortunately, to under-
stand. Neil wouldn’t even be home; he was
off skiing somewhere.

“Well,” he said, as she let it pass, “we'll get
together again soon, won’t we?”

“Sure:”

“Trene will be terribly disappointed.”

“Give her my best.’’ She tilted back and
drained the already empty glass. “Well ——”

“Claire, look.” Charles reached for his
wallet. “I didn’t get you anything for the oc-
casion because . . . well, how do I know what
an eighteen-year-old girl can use? So here.”

He extracted two bills of large denomina-
tion and, leaning forward, tried to tuck them
into Claire’s hand. But the hand, as though of
its own volition, went flat, palm down, on the
table.

“Thanks—no, dad.’ She could feel the
drink now. Or was it the drink? “Thanks,
really, but ——”’

‘An Easter present— Here!’’ Charles’s eyes
were fixed on the unmoving, unyielding hand.
“Get yourself a dress or something.”

Two hundred dollars ! That would be quite a
dress !

“Thanks, dad, really, but... 1’d rather not.”

She hadn’t meant to be so direct. It was im-
portant to her, though, very important, not to
take that money, and she wasn’t going to take
it, and that was that.

“You'd rather not? Say, what is this?”
Charles looked up, his face contracting. Little
lines appeared in bunches; the gullies around
his mouth deepened. It was surprising, quite
a shock, to see how much older he looked
when he frowned. ‘“‘What’s the idea, anyway,
refusing to take anything from me?” His
tone, though quiet, was charged with baffled
fury, with resentful annoyance. ‘Sending all
those checks back?”

I told you, dad. I wrote you. Several times.
If only you’d take the trouble to > She
checked herself. “‘I just want to see if I can get
along on my own.”

“On your own?” His scorn almost gagged
him. “ You ?”

“Yes.” Slowly she raised her eyes. “Me.”

“What about your tuition? Your ex-
penses?”

“I have the scholarship. And the little
money grandfather left me. And with my
summer job, and the one I have now, at the
dorm, waiting on tables ——”

‘Waiting on tables ? Are you batty?”

“T like it!” She stared back at the withering
glance that had always crushed her so easily
in the past. “I happen to get a sense of satis-
faction, of accomplishment out of it.” Don’t
push me, she was thinking, or I’/I tell you. The
main reason. You wouldn’t want to hear that,
would you? You suspect it, but so long as it’s
not out in the open

“Claire, are you going to take this?”

“No, thanks.”

Charles kept looking at her grimly. “Don’t
you think it’s time you stopped being a prob-
lem?’ he said.

Yes ...a problem. That summed up her
status, past and present, from her father’s,

from her mother’s viewpoint, precisely. Com-
pletely. Her eyes wavered, dropped, the wind
went out of her, driven out by that one ques-
tion, that simple statement of fact.

“T agree,” she said. “I think it is time.’’ She
pushed herself up.

“Sit down. Here comes my friend,’ Charles
said. ““Have you met my daughter?’ he asked
the man who had joined him.

“T’ve a call to make. Be right back.” She
gave herself a little shove, to gain momentum,
and walked across the lounge. So ? Things were
going to be different? You spineless wonder,
why didn’t you tell him? Straight out. I don’t
want anything from you, period. Support, pres-
ents, anything. You and I are strangers, we al-
ways have been and we always will be strangers,
and I see no reason why you should go on pick-
ing up my tabs.

“Hello, Jane.” The phone booth was
stuffy, close.

“Well, Her Highness. About time. Where
are you?”

“In town. At the Croyden. Listen, Jane ——’

“Cluck! Get on out here. We ——”’

“Claire, hello.” Someone, a male, had
grabbed the phone. ‘‘Hurry, will you?” The
voice, recognized, went right through her, dis-
lodging, breaking up the cold dead core.
“We're eating here, then going places. And
you, you lucky creature, are stuck with me.”

““Neil.’”’ She took a deep sweet breath of the
close stale air. “I thought . . . you were on a
skiing trip.”

“Postponed. Janie just happened to men-
tion in her last letter that you —— Ill explain
later. Mother wishes a word.”

“Claire,” Mrs. Furman said anxiously, “do
you eat sweetbreads?”

‘“‘Please’’—she swallowed hard—“ lease,
Mrs. Furman, don’t you folks wait for me.
It’ll take an hour, at ——”

“Why don’t you get started. then? There’s a
train every twenty minutes.”

“But ——”

““Neil says he’ll be at the station.”

“Is there something—anything at all—I can
bring?”

“Just bring you.”

She went quickly back to the table. Almost
on the run. How foolish, she thought, to be feel-
ing so good. So deep down, unbelievably, over-
whelmingly good. Over what ? You're just going
to meet some friends. . . . Charles, glancing up
a bit uneasily, relaxed when he saw her. Thank
God, you snapped out of it, his expression
clearly said. He put an arm around Claire and
drew her close, smiling at her paternally. She
resisted the impulse to pull away.

She was sorry, she said, but she had to rush.
Sure, sure, Charles’s friend said, winking, he
had two grown daughters, he understood. He

’

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ASK ANY |
WOMAN

YARAARRARRARRRRBR
BY MARCELENE COX

PPPS

PIPPH

GENERALLY SPEAKING
Behind the front
Of each successful man
Has stood someone
Who said, “‘I know you can.”

According to the principal of our local high
school, some parents would as soon insult the
flag or take opium as they would use the word
“no” to their children.

Middle age: when you spend half your time
looking for your glasses, and the other half
hiding them so you'll know exactly where
they are.

Even when there’s disagreement, children
are strengthened by having two parents ...

LADIES’ HOME JOUR

watched, with pleasure, the affectionate ¢
play between father and daughter, engineey
by Charles. ‘
“So long, dad.” She picked up her things
“So long, dear.”” He squeezed her ar
“We'll get together real soon, now?” f
“Real soon.”
“You'll call me?”
“You bet.’ Who was kidding whom? §
tried to step away, but Charles held her ar
This was good-bye, not so long, and he kr
it. His face, turned away from his friend
Claire, was clouded, decidedly older, aga
The little lines stood out in bunches.
“Claire, are you sure you won’t need a |
tle... . extra? Funds for Easter shopping?”
“No, thanks, dad.’ She would never ne
or want, or, least of all, expect, anything ff
Charles, from either of her parents again.g§
had reached the age, the point where all tl
was behind her.
“What? Turn down an offer like that
Charles’s friend said. ‘Wow! You ought to:
my kids!”

(pas ——” Was there an elemen
pleading in Charles’s voice? Looking into
drawn, still handsome but aging face, s
knew, with a triumph that was, in effect
sinking sensation, that there would come
time when her father—or her mother,
both—would probably—inevitably—need
want something from her.

Wasn’t she the one who could afford to?
generous now? To hand out presents? To h
Charles, in his inimitable fashion, live v
himself?

““Well ——” She forced a grin. It was
easy, demolishing, in a stroke, your pri
your rebellion, the coat of armor you hij
built, with so much labor, so much pal
around yourself. But who, now, needed
mor? “Well, since you mention it”’—s
grinned broadly, sheepishly—“‘I guess I cot
use a... little extra. That is, if you can sp
tae |

“Tf you can spare it!’’ Charles’s friend she
with laughter. ““My kids, exactly.” Cha
stared an instant before joining in. Hastily
got out the bills, folding them so the amowlj
wouldn’t be seen. Claire, grinning, made
hand take the money. Putting it into
purse, she watched the relief sweep away ff
lines of strain, of worry and bother, of ce
science and guilt, from her father’s face §
looked away then, to hide the only emoti@}
she felt—that of pity. And into her voice sh
injected the gratitude, the exuberance t
made her acceptance by far the best gift,
het own part, that she could give.

“Thanks, dad,” she said. “Gee ! Thanks}}
lot!” i

much as books are held upright by oppos! )
bookends.

“When my son-in-law told me my daugh
ter’s chicken casserole excelled mine,” cop
fided a certain mother, “I considered it th
best compliment I could receive.”

For those who have queried which
first, the egg or the chicken, there’s another#
ponder: the station wagon or the large fa’

It takes an unusually active and vivid 1
agination to visualize the things a man
do when he starts out to prové he’s as you
as he ever was.

Recently a mother was surprised to disco
that her youngest, now grown, had complet
missed out in becoming acquainted with ¢
tain family happenings and statistics. Her ¢
clusion, “‘Parents are prone to tell the fils
child—even the second—everything, and
youngest practically nothing.” «

It seems that today the way for a father
get to first base with his son is to let him do
pitching.

The difference between a boy and a gin
this: although both do the same things, ab
does everything out loud.

a en thn annem nnn

Some tissue boxes are advertisements
for the tissues inside.
With Chiffon, the tissues inside are

advertisements for the tissues inside.

(Chiffon is so good, we don’t think we
need to keep reminding you of the name.)
Observe our discreet box.
There is no big, bold type running up

‘ RI

and down the sides and across the top.
There are no bright, showy colors to
attract your attention.

It’s just a neat box with a subtle dia-
mond design that’s guaranteed not to
offend your artistic sensibilities.

(All advertising and sales promotion
material is on a removable see-through

THIS IS NOT AN ADVERTISEMENT

overwrap that you throw away. )
Oh, yes.
There is one little thing.
The name Chiffon does appear in

small, almost invisible letters on the box.

But just think. If your name happens
to be Charlie or Ethel Chiffon, you’ll have
a personalized tissue dispenser.

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ae Weel, he

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R2 LADIES’ HOME JOURNAI)

BOX-OFFICEH

“Lights, camera, action!’ The scene: a kitchen. The stars
Charlton Heston, Joanne Woodward, Risé Stevens, Phyll
McGinley, Joan Fontaine and Mrs. Bill Lennon, mother of th
Lennon Sisters, who are all as familiar with the culinary arts @
they are with the creative. The script (and it’s bound to be a hit) : thet
own recipes which have become box-office with family and friend;

Alt home
CHARLTON HESTON
stars at the grill where he broils his own Chuckburgers.

CHUCK BURGERS

2 pounds ground lean beef chuck
14 teaspoon oregano
lg teaspoon powdered savory

ih:
ip:
Mix together all ingredients and shape into 6 hamburger patties. Broil about 3” from tl ;
heat for 3-5 minutes per side for rare beef, 5-7 minutes for medium, and about 9-1)
minutes per side for well done. Makes 6 servings. Attention, calorie counters: they")
about 150 calories per serving.

| !
fe
md
he
The
LENNON SISTERS
love their mother’s Confetti Aspic,
and whenever they've time
they get into the act

by mincing the vegetables for it.

cr
CONFETTI ASPIC
1 can (1-qt.-14-0z.) tomato juice
3 (3-0z.) packages lemon-flavored gelatin
Juice of 1 lemon

14 teaspoon garlic salt
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce

l4 teaspoon salt
3 dashes liquid hot pepper seasoning

{
6 carrots, scraped and grated fin
8 scallions, minced
4 stalks celery, chopped fine
1 ripe avocado, peeled, pitted
and cut in 14” cubes
Garnish: parsley ruffs, waterer
or other greens 7

eu
Bin,

Ee}.
move
i

Heat tomato juice and gelatin, stirring occasionally, until gelatin is dissolved. Remove fref™
heat and add lemon juice, garlic salt, Worcestershire sauce, salt and liquid pepper seaso}

ing. If you like a tarter aspic, add an additional tablespoon lemon juice. Chill until mixtu}™
is thick and syrupy. Foldin all chopped vegetables, pour aspic mixture into a 3-que eY
fluted ring mold and chill until firm. Unmold and serve on greens. Makes 12-15 servinjf™

Best bets for busy days, thinks

RISE STEVENS, ere

are recipes that can be done “‘on the run.” ae ail ts

Two that have earned high ratings oo

with her family are Quick Bouillabaisse
and Parsley Potato Patties.

PARSLEY POTATO PATTIES
1 envelope instant mashed potatoes 44 teaspoon powdered save!
2 tablespoons minced onion 1 teaspoon white pepper
2 tablespoons minced parsley 2 eggs Pp
1 teaspoon salt

Prepare the potatoes according to package directions, but use 14 cup less water ae
called for. Cool mixture slightly. Beat in onion, parsley and seasonings. Einally, mix

eggs in well. Lightly grease and heat a skillet until a drop of water will sizzle. Then dr
potato mixture by tablespoonfuls and brown on both sides. Makes 4 servings. j

QUICK BOUILLABAISSE

1 onion, peeled and finely chopped
2 tablespoons minced green pepper
2 tablespoons butter or margarine
1 can (10-0z.) frozen shrimp soup
1 can (10-0z.) frozen clam soup Y% teaspoon white pepper
1 can (10-0z.) frozen oyster soup 2 dashes liquid hot pepper season:
1 can (10-0z.) frozen lobster soup Vv cup milk
1 pkg. (12-0z.) frozen fish fillets (sole, flounder or haddock)

1 teaspoon butter

1% teaspoon salt

Y{ teaspoon rosemary
14 teaspoon oregano

Sauté the onion and green pepper in the 2 tablespoons butter or margarine—you (¢ of
do this in the bottom of a large saucepan. Add the frozen soups. Break up the fro:j§,),
fish fillets into large pieces and add along with all remaining ingredients. Simmer, stirr,,
occasionally, for about 10-15 minutes or until flavors mingle and frozen fish is hea
through. Makes 6 hearty servings.

31962

PHYLLIS McGINLEY spaghetti sauce mix

admits to talking a good meal

FT dah tad ex fe is bro, complete with tomato

her elegant Spinach Party Ring.

ACH PARTY RING

-0Z.) packages frozen chopped spinach 11% cups chicken broth
lespoons butter or margarine 34 cup light cream

ion, peeled and chopped fine 11% teaspoons curry powder
lespoons flour 11% teaspoons prepared mustard
laspoon nutmeg 1 teaspoon lemon juice

spoon salt 5 hard-cooked eggs

aspoon pepper

spinach according to package directions and then, using a strainer and a spoon,
as much water from spinach as possible. Sauté the onion in the butter or margarine
! tender. Blend in flour, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Add 34 cup chicken broth and the
cream and heat, stirring, until thickened and smooth. Combine 34 cup sauce with
ed spinach, adding salt to taste. Pack into a well-buttered 6-cup ring mold and bake

oderately slow oven, 325° F., for about 55 minutes or until set and ring pulls from
bf pan. Thin remaining sauce with 34 cup chicken broth. Add curry powder, mustard
emon juice. Peel and chop 4 of the eggs and add to sauce. To serve, unmold ring on
nd platter. (If ring does not unmold perfectly, you can easily patch it up.) Fill center
egg mixture and garnish with hard-cooked-egg slices. Makes 8-10 servings.

JOANNE WOODWARD,
who likes to experiment
with whatever food she has on hand,
says she’s come up with a few concoctions
are quite mad. One that makes especially good sense—
and eating—is Shrimp and Rice Au Gratin.

(MP AND RICE AU GRATIN

»lespoons butter or margarine Pinch cayenne pepper

on, peeled and minced Juice of 44 lemon

love garlic, peeled and crushed 114% cups milk

»lespoons flour '4 pound mild Cheddar cheese, grated

| 1 pound shelled, deveined, cooked shrimp
Leaspoons curry powder 2 cups cooked rice

;aspoon nutmeg 1 cup bread crumbs lightly browned in 2
laspoon powdered tarragon tablespoons butter

ispoon prepared mustard

| butter or margarine and sauté onion and garlic until tender. Blend in flour, all

mings and lemon juice. Slowly add milk and heat, stirring, until mixture is thick-
and smooth. Now add half of the grated cheese and heat, stirring, until cheese is
ied. Combine shrimp, rice and cheese sauce. Place ina buttered 2-quart casserole, top
crumbs and remaining cheese. Bake in a moderate oven, 350° F., for 15-20
tes or until bubbly and lightly browned. Makes 6 servings.

JOAN FONTAINE
served her first full meal at the age of ten.
Because she was a frail child, she spent many hours in the kitchen,
fascinated with the feathery breads she saw baking.
ay she performs in the kitchen with the proficiency of a professional
| chef; but one of her favorite recipes remains one she learned
as a little girl, Swedish Almond Tarts.

SWEDISH ALMOND TARTS
1% cups butter

1 cup sugar

1 egg

1 teaspoon almond extract

14 teaspoon vanilla

3 cups sifted flour

21% cups finely minced almonds
Candied fruit, nuts to garnish

‘1m butter and sugar until very soft and fluffy. Beat in egg and flavorings. Work the
‘and almonds in. Chill dough until firm. Pinch off a little bit at a time (about 1 table-
n) and press into,tiny fluted tart tins measuring about 134” across the top and 34”
. Place tins on a baking sheet and bake in a slow oven, 300° F., for 25-30 minutes. The

tly, then, using a toothpick, slip the tarts from the tins. Before baking, these may be = =

rated with bits of candied fruit and nuts. Makes about 51% dozen tarts.
ERE TE NTI

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DIARY OF A FACE LIFT

| CONTINUED FROM PAGE 32

come out with something good for a change?
The doctor gave me no final facial instruc-
tions except to use soap and water and look
happy. He reminded me again that this repair
work was temporary. The aging process would
continue, but I’d always be six to eight years
behind myself for having had it done. Am now
on a sleeping jag—can’t stay awake for very
long at a time.

TWENTY-FIRST DAY

My host and hostess are wonderful, let me
sleep all day and are completely understand-
ing. My host says, surprisingly, “I guess there
isn’t anyone who hasn’t thought about having
his face lifted at one time or another.”

END OF FOURTH WEEK
Neck still discolored below each ear. Face
looks a little too full yet to be normal, numb
areas are still buzzing. But face is clear and
passable. Met a former acquaintance who sim-
ply said, ““How well you look.” That’s a mile-
i stone passed.

END OF FIFTH WEEK

All discoloration is gone. Face still is a bit
full and eyes shadowy, but not noticeable un-
der make-up. Physically I feel equal to any-
thing—for the first time in years. Psychologi-
cally you are as you look, perhaps.

SIXTH WEEK

Today I returned home. A big sign on the
front door said, ‘Here she comes, Mrs. Amer-
ica,” and I was greeted by howls of delight
from husband and friends. Oh, one woman
said she intended “to accept the face the Lord
gave her,” but one of my dearest friends
moaned, “Ooh, I hate you,” with a gentle
smile. Probably the best compliment the doc-
tor’s work could have had.

I’ve loved every minute of the whole adven-
ture. Even the discomfort was a means of re-
trieving the face I’d lived with for so many
years and wanted back so much. Not once
did I walk the floor haunted by thoughts of
self-mutilation, as one patient said she did.
Nor did I hesitate to tell my close friends
where I was going or where I'd been—any
more than I would make a secret of having my
teeth straightened.

Surprising enthusiasm has been expressed
by most of the men I know—understanding
souls that they are. A few of the most devoted
exclaim I’ve turned back the clock ten years.
Golly, I asked for only five. Was it worth it?
It certainly was. It is glorious to have my own
face back, and in six to eight years I'll prob-
ably do it again.

Sometimes people want to know who did this
work so well. I can’t take the responsibility of
recommending a surgeon—I can only say,
““Look for the very finest plastic surgeon you
can find.” You want to wind up with a bal-
anced face as well as technically fine, safe
surgery. Properly done, you should look only
like yourself again. It’s the same old skull, but
with muscles and skin as tight as before the
operation.

Your family doctor (who is pretty apt to
consider the whole idea silly) can refer you to
a reputable plastic surgeon. Clinics and plastic
specialists might also help you or your doctor
locate the right man. And the right man is apt
to agree with the great English surgeon who
contended that there is nothing more worth
preserving than the face of a woman.

NO HIDING PLACE

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 96

‘““A package,” Lucille said. “Benjy found it
and was using it to play snow remoyal.”

“Snow removal?” Frank said. ““Where is
ne

“I’m afraid my maid threw it out. Why? Is
that important?”

“It’s important enough to dispose of the one
other lead in this case,’ Frank said. “It nar-
rows it down to Paul Starr and nobody else.”

“You must be mistaken,” she said. ““You’re
entirely wrong about Mr. Starr. He ——”

“Where is this uncle?’’ Frank broke in.

“He walked out just a minute ago.”

“Does he have a mermaid tattooed on his
wrist?”

““Yes—how did you know?”

““We’ve been looking for him,” Frank said.
“We want to talk to him, so does Narcotics.”

“Narcotics?” she said.

“What did you think was in that package?”
he demanded. “Benjy was smarter than you
are, Miss Brush. He knew it was snow.”

“Oh,” she said blankly.

“Heroin to you,” he said. ‘““We found a little
of it on the floor where Benjy spilled it.”

Lucille said, “But the important thing is
we've found Benjy and we’ve got to go after
Sheilah right away. Where is Mr. Starr?”

““We’ve got him,” Frank said with satisfac-
tion.
**May I speak to him, please?”

“He’s not available right now.”

“Have you booked him?”

“No, not yet. We’re about to.”

“Don’t,” she said. “Hold off, Mr. Luther.
Give himachance.” ~~

Frank sighed wearily. ““Look, young lady, I
want to book him and go home and get some
sleep. I’ve put in twenty-six hours straight on
this casé:”’

“But you want to solve it, don’t you?”

“I figure we’ve got it solved, miss.”

“Wait until we’ve found Sheilah,”’ Lucille
aid. “Her mother called Saturday night, re-
jmember, and she must have told Sheilah where
she was and maybe even who she was with. I
‘know where Sheilah is now. I’m going to get
her and [should think at least you’d be inter-
ested in what she may have to say.”

“What she has to say will probably just
convict the guy,” he said. ““Why else did she
run away and hide?”

“This is what I want you to do,” she said
briskly, ignoring the question. “‘Put Mr. Starr
in your car and drive him up to the boathouse
in Central Park. I'll meet you there with Benjy.
Please—just as soon as you can.”

“Lady, be reasonable,”’ he said.

“Be reasonable? You be human! Don’t you
know the poor man is worried sick about his

hildren? Haven’t you any heart? Don’t
you ——”’

“OK, OK,” he said. “I'll bring him.”

She hung up and flew to the kitchenette,
poured a glass of milk and said to Benjy,

“Here, drink this,” and ran back to the bed-

room to dress with frantic haste. She caught
up her handbag and ran to the living room
again.

Benjy was sitting on the floor with the glass
of milk untouched at his side and she said,
“Honey, we have to hurry.”

He looked up at her and said, “‘Lucille?”’

“Yes, darling.”

“Shee said last night that mommy had gone
away.”

Lucille came to rest, clasping her handbag
tightly. “Yes, she has, Benjy.”

“On a long, long trip,’ Benjy said. “It
means mommy died, doesn’t it?”

She knelt beside him, put her arms around
him, and said in a low, unsteady voice, ““Yes,
darling, I’m afraid it does.” She kissed his
cheek and he pressed against her, murmured,
“Shee said we were going to live with daddy
now. You'll come to see me, won’t you?”

“You bet I will,” she said strongly.

“Would you come and stay with us?”

She kissed his forehead. “Darling, ’m very
flattered, and I promise you this—we’ll see
lots and lots of each other.”

“T guess I could just call you Aunt Lucille,”
he said.

“That would make me very happy. But,
Benjy, we'd better get started. We have to
hurry uptown and find Sheilah.”

“OK,” he said, and scrambled to his feet.

Paul and Detective Luther reached the boat-
house first and were waiting there when the
cab pulled to the curb. Paul lifted Benjy out
and held him in a close hug and Detective
Luther grinned and said, “Hi there, Benjy.
You OK?”

Lucille’s eyes met Paul’s pleadingly and she
said, ““Paul—look at me. About the story in
the paper oa

His eyes were dark and their expression
veiled, but he smiled faintly and said, “It’s
OK, Lucille. All in a day’s work, I know. The
main thing is we’ve found the kids and I can
never thank you enough for your help.”

“But I didn’t write the story,” she said.
“Listen, please. The woman who cleans for
you out in Grandkill called the Record-Star
last night and the man on late rewrite put it in.
I had nothing to do with it.”

He smiled, and her hand, which had made a
little gesture of appeal, ended firmly gripped
in his.

Frank said, ““Let’s get on with this. Where
do we find Sheilah?”

“Up that way,” Benjy said. “I'll show you.”

He trotted ahead up an incline and, where a
path turned into the Ramble, he remembered
the turn. At the cave the adults had to stoop
low, pushing branches aside. Benjy dropped
to his knees and said, “In under here.”

*“No wonder we never found it last night,”
Paul said, and called, “Sheilah? Are you
there?”

‘*He’s in there,” Benjy said.

*‘Who’s in there?”

“That bad boy who ate up our cheese crack-
ers,”” Benjy said. “‘He’s back in there, eating
our lollipops.”

Frank grunted, got down on his knees and
bent his head low. “The girl’s not in there,
though,”’ he said. ““Hey, you—sonny, come
out here.”’

“No,” the boy in the cave said.

“You better,” Benjy said warningly. ‘““He’s
a policeman.”

“We're looking for a little girl,’ Luther
said. “Sheilah Starr. Have you seen her?”

“No,” the boy said.

“A little girl with kind of red hair,” Frank
said.

“He knows her,” Benjy said. “She was go-
ing to let Fritzie bite him.”

“‘Fritzie?’’ Paul said. ‘‘Who’s Fritzie?”’

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ Benjy looked up
with a happy grin. ““We’ve got a puppy
dog now.”

Lucille dropped to her knees and peered
into the cave. ‘““Look,”’ she said. “You know
that little girl, You saw her this morning.
Now I want the truth, or do you want to get
in trouble?”

The boy did not answer; his eyes looked
big and resentful.

“You took other people’s things,” Lucille
said in an ominous tone. “You're eating
other kids’ candy. If you don’t want to get
into trouble you’d better tell us the truth.
Detective Luther, show him your shield.”

Frank solemnly produced his blue-and-gold
shield.

“All right, maybe I saw her,”’ the boy said.
“She got in a car with that nasty little dog
and went away.”

*““Where did she get in this car?” Frank
asked.

“Down in the parking lot.”

‘All alone?”

““No, somebody was driving, of course.”

“Who?’’

“T didn’t see.”

““What did the car look like?”

“It was a big creamy car with a black top,”
the boy said. “‘I saw her and that nasty little
dog getting in and then they drove away.”

Frank said, “I bet you even looked at the
license plates. You happen to notice the num-
bers? You remember them?”

“Nope.”

“Wait a minute,” Paul said, and he, too,
knelt until he could see the boy’s face in the
gloom of the cave. “Listen, son, did you
notice the numbers in front of the letters on
that license plate? I mean New York licenses
all begin with capital letters, you know. Was
it RO, maybe, or RK?”

“That’s right,” the boy said. “It was RK.”

“That’s Rockland County,’ Paul said,
standing up again. “I had a hunch. The
Landises have a cream-colored convertible
like the one he described, with black-and-
white upholstery. Cora found Sheilah, bless
her. She must have taken her on out to Grand-
kill. Let’s get on the telephone.”

Paul had telephoned Cora Landis and had
no answer. Now he had Arthur Landis’s office
on the line and Arthur was saying, ““No, I

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WEATHER
HOUSE

BY JOHN BRENNEMAN

House includes equipment,

I equired some persuasion. Detective
Luther was in a sour mood. But there were
<ids. A guy didn’t want to send their
the chair on top of what had hap-

ned to their mother. “I’ve put in twenty-
seven hours on this case already. I might as
well make it thirty. Let’s go.”

At the Landis house in Grandkill, the car
descended a steep incline and came out on a
ed terrace. There was a three-car garage
yards away, with all its doors closed. As

he got out of the car, Frank said, ““Seems
pretty quiet around here.”

Paul went on to the door and rang the bell
and at last the door opened on Cora’s ques-

HOT-

tioning face. He asked anxiously, “Is Sheilah
here?”

“Sheilah?”’ Cora said blankly

“Didn’t you find her?”

“T don’t understand, Paul,” she said.

““Weren’t you in Central Park this morning?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve been home all morn-
ing.’ She glanced up. “Don’t tell me that’s
Benjy! Oh, that’s wonderful, Paul—you found
him. Darling, come say hello to Aunt Cora.”

But Benjy hung back, clinging to Lucille’s
hand.

“You say you were home ail morning?”
Frank Luther asked. “We tried to get you on
the telephone.”

JOHN BRENNEMAN
on : oe

terraces, fences and carport, all planned as one unit.

ine proportions give this house a simple elegance. It
is a study in reserve and good taste
Hot-weather problems have been relieved by recessing

the east and west windows in alcoves for shade. This is

an all-electric house, a favorite where electric rates are

but usable a

ARCHITECTURAL EDITOR

low, and it is both cooled and heated by a heat pump, a
device most practical in warm sections of the country.
most anywhere if windows are carefully

placed and kept small

The interior is particularly well planned for an active

family. The living/dining room is entirely out of traffic

from front and rear entrances as well as from other

{ ost to re produce

Plans are available

is also close to the

rooms. A master bedroom close to the spacious entry

hall invites guests to deposit wraps there. This bedroom

family room, giving the parents a

-onvenient suite far enough from the children’s rooms
so nighttime noises will not wake the youngsters. The
family room is ideally situated for daytime use, near the

kitchen for informal meals. children’s parties or play

Architect: George Matsumoto
Floor ar 1604 sq ft
$24,000 to $31.000

Write for details

LADIES’ HOME JOURN

Cora inspected him coldly. ““Who are yot
she asked.

“This is Detective Luther of Homicid
Paul said. “We did call you, Cora, and
no answer.”

“The maid doesn’t come in until noo
she said, “and I was having a nap. I alwy
turn off the extension telephone upst
when I take a nap. Sorry, Paul. Was}
important?” ,

Paul made a groaning noise, and Lue
said, ““We were so hopeful it was you in
park, Mrs. Landis. A little boy said he gs
Sheilah get in a car like yours, a cre
convertible.”

“My dear, there are thousands of cre
convertibles,” Cora said.

“But this one had Rockland County ma
ers,” Paul said. at

“Convertible Heights, they call it arbul
here,” Cora said. ““The woods of Rocklal
County are full of them, darling.’ She Stepy)
back, opening the door wide. ““Won’t yj
come in?”

“We'd better be starting back to the cit
Frank said. “But I’d like to use your telepho}
first, if I may.”

“Of course,’ Cora said.

“Can I go look at the swimming poo
Benjy asked.

“Of course,” Cora said.

The others followed Cora into the how}
Lucille took Paul’s hand as he stood by F
huge window gazing disconsolately at }
broad river below. Detective Luther was fp
ting through his call. There was the sound
a car outside. Arthur came quickly into
house and Cora called out, “Darling, wit
are you doing home?”

“Is Sheilah here?” he asked.

“No,” Paul said.

““Didn’*t ——” He looked at Cora.

“Mrs. Landis has been home all morni
she says,” Frank Luther said as he ca
away from the telephone. ““Where were yi
by the way, Mr. Landis?” i.

“Oh—Detective Luther,’ Arthur said.
was at my office.”

“You weren’t driving a cream-colored cit
vertible?”’

“No; that’s my car outside. It’s gray.”

Frank glanced at the gray car. He t
to Paul and said in a firm but regretful tom
“We'd better hit the road, Mr. Starr.”

“But somebody found Sheilah in the par
Paul said helplessly. “Somebody took
away in a cream convertible.”

I doubt it, Frank said. “You put?
words in that kid’s mouth, Mr. Starr. Yai
gave him a choice, remember? RO or RPP
and he picked RK. He never saw her dri
away with anybody, I’m afraid.’ He adt
with great weariness, “Let’s get going.”
opened the door and led the way outsijh
Benjy was in the garden, stooping byje
privet hedge, and when Paul called his na
he came slowly across the terrace. *‘I thou
I saw Fritzie over there. Fritzie, our lf
puppy dog.”

“Get in,” Frank said impatiently. E

Lucille got in the detective’s car and SH
as she moved over to make room for P
and Benjy, “That little boy did say hes
Sheilah get in a car with a dog.”

“So what?” Frank said. “If Sheilah J
here they'd tell us, wouldn’t they?”

““He’s our little adopted dog,’ Benjy Sef
as Paul hoisted the boy into his lap. “Hei:
away, too, from Mr. Robert Hadley over je
Park Avenue, and me and Shee adopted hit}

Frank started the engine. He let thes
move forward and Benjy pointed sud
and said with excitement, “See, daddy. Th
he is.” :

Frank stopped the car. Paul looked, sai
small brown dachshund. Benjy jumped |
and called confidently, ““Come here, Fritzl

The little dog barked, then came trott
through the garden :

Paul dropped to his knees, found the br
plate on the dog’s collar, and turned a wh
shocked face up to Lucille, “Mr. Rot
Hadley,” he said. “And the dog’s name
here. It’s Fritz.”

“Then Sheilah’s here,” Lucille said. “St
here somewhere.”’ She turned alertly. “Wh
is that woman?”

BY, 1962

Srank was out of the car and striding to-
rd the house. He threw the door open and
icst inside. In the living room Arthur was
ilding Cora’s wrist. His face was gray-
bking and she was trying to pull away,
»wing huge and frightened eyes.
)\ ‘Lady, where is that kid?” Frank demanded.
‘I don’t know,” Cora said. “Ask Arthur.”
‘How should I know?” Arthur said, avoid-
‘looking at Paul as he came in with Lucille.
‘That dog was with her,’ Frank said.
what’s going on here? What do you know
Jout that little girl?”
jCora jerked her wrist free and faced the
Nective. ““Maybe Arthur took my car this
»rning.”
II took my own car,” Arthur said. ‘‘Cora,
vou know where Sheilah is, say so.”

). Was napping,” Cora said. Her face was
ished high under her large and burning
ps. “I didn’t see what car you took. I can’t
tect you any more, Arthur. The time has
e to tell the truth—the whole story.’ She
ing out one hand toward the detective. “‘He
ynt to Atlantic City with Vera Starr Satur-
h night and he was trying to break off with
-, but she threatened to make trouble.”
fe made a gesture of appeal and said in a
Iv voice, “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.”

: rthur met Paul’s eyes, then glanced away.
said in a low, abject voice, “I didn’t kill
r, Paul. I swear it.”

‘Hey, now,” Frank said. “You mean you
e in Atlantic City with that dame?”
*Sheilah knew the room number,’ Cora
'd. “That’s why he had to find her. She
ew they were together in Room Two Twenty-
o because those are her lucky numbers and
ra told her on the telephone. I know be-
se Arthur told me. He confessed it.”

‘I didn’t confess anything,’ Arthur said.

Now don’t go telling them Cora is out of
r head again,” she broke in. ““He and Vera
d it all planned. They were going to have
> put away, take all my money, and be free.”
If that were so, why would I kill her?”’
thur demanded.

“I don’t know what went wrong,’ Cora
d. “But you brought her overnight bag
ick here and hid it, remember? I’m sorry,
t Vl have to turn that bag over to the
ilice.””

She walked out on me,” Arthur said.
jhe had a telephone call and walked out and
ver came back. If I had known she was
ad I’d have got rid of that bag, Mr. Luther.”
‘A telephone call from where?’ Frank

dy called the room while I was out.”
/*Man or woman?” Frank asked alertly.
wl never asked that,’ Arthur said, and
oked at Cora with an air of startled com-
ehension. “I never thought to ask, but that’s
; A woman. Of course it-was a woman.
pu, Cora! You followed us to Atlantic City,
dn’t you? You called her and got her down-
urs.” He faced Detective Luther. “Listen,
’s got a crazy idea that I was conspiring
h Vera to have her put away. That’s it.
qat’s the reason.”

I wonder if it’s such a crazy idea. I wonder
you weren’t doing just that.”

“Now see here ——” Arthur began.

“One of you killed Vera Starr, it looks to
2, and one of you found Sheilah this morn-
g. Where is she? That dog is here. You
mt explain away that little dog.”

“Cora, what have you done with her?”
ul asked pleadingly. ““She’s just a little
1. For God’s sake, tell us.”

Cora said, “Why don’t you ask him? Ask
thur.”’

“It wasn’t Arthur,” Paul said. “You your-
if told me that he had gone off for the week-
d in his sports car. There’s no room in the
ck of that car to transport Vera to River-
He Drive.”

“That’s right,’ Arthur said.

Cora stared at Paul, then backed away to-
ard the doors that opened on the terrace
id the swimming pool. Suddenly she turned
id ran out of the+house and Arthur, after
1 instant’s hesitation, followed her.

Frank Luther shouted, “Grab her. Don’t
her go.”” He swung around. “‘Let’s search

this house. Mr. Starr, you and Miss Brush
take the upstairs. I'll start in the basement.”

“And there’s a guesthouse,” Paul said.

“OK, let’s get busy.”

Paul ran up the stairs, following Lucille.
He heard the little brown dachshund barking
outside, off in the distance, heard Benjy call-
ing, “Fritzie—here, Fritzie.’ The boy was
impatient because the little dog did not obey.
Instead Fritzie ran to the garage and sniffed
at the crack between the concrete and the sill
of the closed door.

Sheilah heard the little dog bark, but she
did not dare call out. What could Fritzie do?
The main thing was to just keep breathing
and lie very still and close off her mind to the
darkness and not be scared. It was stiflingly
hot in the trunk of the car, sealed up in the
closed garage, and so very dark. A long time
had passed since she had looked up in Central
Park and seen Aunt Cora’s smiling face and
heard her say, “Well, hello. You’re a hard
little girl to find, Sheilah. P’'ve been at the
boathouse for a long time, watching for you.”

The boathouse? Why the boathouse?

“You called from the telephone booth in
the boathouse, didn’t you? You said you
were Joanie Perkins, but I checked. Joanie
was home all day. Where is Benjy?”

Sheilah had felt no fear at first. Aunt Cora
had acted very friendly. “I guess you know
you two have been very naughty, running
away like that and upsetting your father. He’s
been looking everywhere for you.”

“He has?’ Sheilah had said, feeling a
pleased anxiety.

“So I’m taking you straight home,” Aunt
Cora had said. ‘““Come on, that’s my car down
there in the parking lot.”

Her feeling had been relief that it was all
over and there would be no more running
away. “Where is daddy?”

“Your father is all right,’ Aunt Cora had
said. “We'll go to my house and your daddy
will meet us there.”

It had felt good to be in Cora’s big car,
good to relax at last, and of course there had
been no reason to be afraid; it was Aunt Cora.
She had unsnapped the leash from Fritzie’s
collar and Fritzie had loved riding in the car.
Aunt Cora was saying, ““Honey, so many bad
things have happened. But you'll be with your
father now and you'll be happy, I know.”
Aunt Cora had kept on with a sympathy that
only made it all worse, saying, “Everybody
is SO sorry about your poor mother. Nobody
even knows where she went last weekend.
Do you?”

““No,”’ Sheilah had said.

“But didn’t she telephone?”

Sheilah had almost forgotten. “Yes, she
called home to see how everything was.”

““Where was she?”

“Atlantic City.”

“Is that all she told you?”

“Just her room number is all,” Sheilah had
said. Her lucky number in a row—three twos,
she thought, but maybe it wasn’t such a lucky
number and what people said about two-
dollar bills’ being bad luck was all true. She
had said, ‘‘I don’t want to talk about it, Aunt
Cora,” and had started to cry, and Aunt Cora
had been ever so nice and her voice so very
gentle and she had said, “Sweetie, forgive me.”

I. was after they had turned off the parkway
and were going north that Sheilah had turned
on the radio and the voice had come on say-
ing, “Paul Starr, estranged husband of the
dead woman, was arrested last night by de-
tectives of the Homicide Squad after it was
disclosed that the murder weapon, a scarf
with a design of hunters and a running
fox, had been in his possession before the
crime ——”

Aunt Cora’s swooping fingers had turned
the knob, but Sheilah had heard enough and
had cried out, ‘““You didn’t tell me they ar-
rested daddy!”

“I didn’t want to worry you, sweetie,’ Aunt
Cora had said. She had made the turn in be-
tween the stone gateposts and the car had
rushed down the steep driveway and charged
into the garage and there Aunt Cora had
jammed on the power brakes hard. It was
stopping so short that had made the amber
bead roll out where Sheilah could see it.

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“Here we are,” Aunt Cora had said with
a cheerful laugh. “Hop out.”

As Sheilah pushed the door open Fritzie
had jumped out and scampered away. She
had turned back to get the leash and that was
when she had seen an object with a yellowish
glow under the low seat. Aunt Cora had
asked, ““What have you got there?”

Sheilah’s hand had closed hard on the
lozenge-shaped amber bead and she had
looked up at Aunt Cora with fear and shock
in her eyes. She had opened her hand and dis-
closed the amber bead, catching the light.
“This is mommy’s bead. She had a whole
string like this. She was wearing it Saturday
night when she went out. She was wearing her
brown raw-silk suit and her amber beads.
They’re the ones daddy gave her. You ask him.
See, there’s a design of little stars.”

Looking up, she had seen Aunt Cora’s face,
and she would never forget how her big brown
eyes had glowed and how her mouth had been
twisted. Sheilah had started to speak and
suddenly a hand had been clamped over her
mouth. Aunt Cora was very strong. Sheilah
had kicked with her heels, but it had been
no use. The little dog had barked furiously
and she would have called ‘‘Sic her, Fritzie,”’
if only she could have. She had seen the lid
of the trunk fly up and she had struggled to
break free, but she had been lifted up and
thrown forward with a mighty shove. Then
the lid of the trunk had come down with a
heavy thud and she had been in darkness.
Outside she had heard Aunt Cora calling,
“Here, puppy. Come here, pup.”

The amber bead was still clutched in
Sheilah’s hand; she had never let go of it. She
had curled up in a corner of the trunk in the
darkness, breathing gaspingly and _ hearing
Aunt Cora’s voice outside calling, ‘““Come
here, puppy. . . . Now please come here
you stupid dog, come here!”

She knew that Aunt Cora had never caught
Fritzie, because he was barking again, clos

\nd then Sheilah had heard the noise of
the closing garage door. It was all so long as
now, and so far away, and it made Sheilzh’s

head ache to think of it. She lay still, with the
lozenge-shaped amber bead clutched in her
left hand. It was hard to breathe.

She heard Fritzie barking again and would
have called out, “Good boy, Fritzie,’’ but she
couldn’t waste any breath and she was afraid
that if he barked too loud Aunt Cora might
come back and catch him.

“Paul,” Lucille called, “come look. That
dog is barking there by the garage, sniffing at
the door.”

Paul snatched up the key ring Cora had left
on a hall table and ran across the terrace, hear-
ing Lucille’s heels clacking on the flagstones
behind him. Paul pressed the button and the
door swung up with agonizing slowness.
Fritzie scooted underneath as soon as there
was room and began barking aggressively.

Sheilah heard the sound, and the noise of
the door sliding up, and she lay crouched in
the darkness, waiting and afraid to hope and
afraid to call out. But there was the noise of a
key in the lock and suddenly the lid of the
trunk flew up and there were daddy and
Lucille and Benjy. She scrambled to her knees
and then she was in daddy’s arms and he was
crying and Lucille was crying and Fritzie was
barking happily and Benjy asked in a wonder-
ing tone, “What were you going in there,
Shee?”

Detective Luther came running,
anxiously, “Is she OK?”

“Yes, thank God,” Paul said, holding her
close and feeling her tears wet on his neck
where her face was pressed into the angle of
his chin and shoulder.

Sheilah opened the fingers of her left hand
and disclosed the amber bead.

Frank said, ““What’s that?”

Paul turned his head to see. “‘That’s Vera’s.
I gave her a necklace with beads like that.
Where did you find it, Sheilah?”

She said in his ear, ““Under the front seat.”

“Of this car—Cora’s car?”

“Yes,”

“And she locked you in the trunk?”

“Yes, daddy.”

calling

Frank said furiously, “Ill get her. Give me
that bead, kid.’’ He took it in his hand, said,
“This little bead saves you from the electric
chair, Mr. Starr. I guess you know that.”

“T know that,’’ Paul said.

“You’re one lucky guy,” Frank said.
“That phone call | made—we’ve picked up
Claude Boggs. He can explain a lot too.” He
grinned at Sheilah. “I mean one real lucky
guy.”

“I know that, too,” Paul said.

“Bless you, kid,” Frank said, and turned
away.

Cora had followed Arthur and Vera to
Atlantic City and made the call that brought
Vera downstairs. She had got her into the car
on some pretext and strangled her with the
scarf, and the necklace had been broken and
one of the scattered beads had rolled in there
under the front seat where Cora hadn’t found
it. But one bead was enough. That one bead
clinched it, and when he checked Atlantic
City he’d get all the facts.

On the terrace overlooking the river he
came face to face with Arthur. “Where is
she?’ Frank demanded. “She killed Vera
Starr.”

“I know,” Arthur said. “She has persecu-
tion fears, Mr. Luther, and she was convinced
there was a conspiracy against her.”

Frank asked bluntly, ‘Was there?”

“Tm not blameless,” Arthur said humbly.
“1 brought the situation on. I know that now.
She followed us, described us to a bellhop and
bribed him to find out the number of our
room. Then she watched in the lobby and
when she saw me go out she called Vera and
told her she had to talk to her. I don’t know
how she persuaded Vera to get into her car,
but she did, and she killed her. I thought she
wanted to find Sheilah to protect me. But she
was protecting herself. She knew if you started
checking Room Two Twenty-two you'd find
out everything. That’s why she went looking
for Sheilah ”’

Frank asked fiercely, “Where is she?”

“She went down to the fate *” Arthur said,
and met the detective’s eyes. ““Let her go.’

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Frank pushed past Arthur Landis
started down the steep path, slipping}
stumbling in his haste. Cora was not in
There was no sign of her, no ripple, ont
deep, murky river flowing swiftly with th}
tide toward the sea. Arthur had followed}

A small cabin cruiser bore toward |)
and a man shouted, “She jumped—I saw |

More than ten minutes had passed b}
they found her, and then it was too late}

Arthur looked at Paul. He said in ¢
tone, ““Use my car, Paul. Take your ki |
home where they belong.”

“OK,” Paul said. ‘“Thanks.” |

Sheilah and Benjy were with Lucille, s|
on a bench at the edge of the garden an)
aware of what had happened down bj
Lucille’s arms were around the two chi
and the little dog frisked at their feet.

Sheilah had recovered now. Seeing}
father coming, she got quickly to her fee!
went to meet him, laughing as he hoiste
up in his arms like a small child and ky
her cheek. He put her down again and}

“Sheilah, I’m proud of you.” Noticing)
jy’s eager eyes watching, he added, “Ancy
too, Benjy.” |

“And Fritzie?”’ Benjy said. me
“Fritzie as much as anybody,” Paul}

Sheilah said anxiously, “Daddy, Ivi
forty-six dollars of my good-luck mone
Do you suppose Mr. Hadley wou
Fritzie for forty-six dollars?” W

“We'll pay Mr. Hadley anything he a}
Paul said. “We've certainly got to keep F bi
in the family.”’ He stretched out his hai}
Benjy. “Come on, we’re going home.” |

“Home to Grandkill?’’ Sheilah aj
“Really home?” '

“Really home,” he said.

They were moving toward*the car, ance}
glanced back and saw Lucille still standify
the bench, watching them with a gentle
sider’s smile. He called out, ‘“‘Hey, aren’
coming?”

“If there’s room,” she said.

“There’s always room for you, Lucill«
said.

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106

WE LOVE “SPRING
PINK” DESSERTS

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 67
325° F., for 40 minutes. Cool slightly, loosen
edges and turn out of pans. Cool com-

pletely. Whip the cream with the remaining 4

teaspoon almond flavoring and a few drops

of red food coloring. Cut the berries in half

and sugar lightly. Spread a little of the pink
whipped cream on the top of a layer, add a few
berries, then place the next layer on top. Re-
peat. When the third layer is in place, frost the
sides of the cake with the rest of the whipped
cream and make a crown effect on top with
small spoonfuls of cream. Mound the remain-
ing berries in the center top of the cake. Makes
12 servings.

STRAWBERRY CREPES

14 cup sifted flour
l4 teaspoon salt
14 teaspoon cinnamon

CREPES:
2 eggs

L cup milk

Beat the eggs and milk together until well
mixed. Add the remaining ingredients and
beat thoroughly. Here you can use a whisk or
folding fork, if you like. Heat a 6” skillet until
it sizzles when sprinkled with a drop of water.
Rub with a piece of oiled paper towel. Then
spoon in just enough batter to cover the bot-
tom of the pan. Quickly turn and twist or
shake the pan so that the bottom is evenly
covered and pour out any extra batter. Sauté
until the crepe is golden on one side. Tip out
on aclean towel and repeat until all the crepes
are finished. Makes 12 crepes.

STRAWBERRY SAUCE:

1 cup sugar

2 tablespoons corn-
starch

1 cup wate)

4 cups strawberries

| teaspoon finely
grated lemon rind

l4 teaspoon vanilla

1 cup commercial
sour cream

2 tablespoons butter

Mix the sugar with the cornstarch until well
blended. Add the water and heat, stirring con-

FRIESE Sucaryl
Tablet Dispenser

Buy Sucaryl and get this conven-

ient dispenser free. Just turn

the wheel and out comes
ir Sucaryl. Fill and
agai

n and again.

TIME

stantly, until thickened and no taste of corn-
starch remains. Wash and hull 2 cups strawber-
ries. Press through a sieve, or buzz in a blender
to purée. This will give about 74 cup puree.
Stir into the sauce along with the lemon rind
and vanilla. All this may be done several hours
ahead. When ready to serve, spoon a little of
the sour cream on the browned side of each
crepe. (This sour cream may be sweetened with
1 tablespoon sugar if the berries are not too
sweet.) Roll up the crepes. Melt the butter in a
large skillet or chafing dish. Add the crepes
and brown gently on all sides. Have the sauce
hot. Wash and hull remaining berries and cut
in half (sugar these also, if they are not sweet
enough), and stir into the hot sauce. When the
crepes are golden, serve, spooning the sauce
over the top. If you like, 1 tablespoon kirsch
may be added to the sauce just before serving.
Makes 4 to 6 servings.

CORAL FRUIT
COMPOTE

Grated rind of | orange
2 cups strawberries

21% cups fresh pine-
apple, sliced thin

4 cup grenadine

2 pounds rhubarb,
washed, trimmed
and cut into 1”
pieces

11% cups sugar 1

Mix rhubarb, sugar and grated orange rind
and place in a shallow baking dish. Wash, hull
and purée 1 cup strawberries and pour over
rhubarb. Cover with aluminum foil and bake
in a slow oven, 325° F., for about 30 minutes,
stirring twice during this time. Set aside, still
covered, to cool to room temperature, then
chill thoroughly. The rhubarb should be crisp-
tender when removed from oven, for it will
continue to cook slightly after it has been
taken out. Mix the pineapple and grenadine
and chill at least 2 hours.

To prepare the compote, wash and hull the
remaining strawberries. Drain the rhubarb
and pineapple, reserving the syrups, and arrange
in a crystal serving bowl. Pile the strawberries
in the center. Mix the syrups from the rhubarb
and pineapple and spoon over the fruit. Makes
6 to 8 servings.

ATENEO wy,
ont >

verages that say ey) on the label,

PINK RHUBARB SHERBET

2 pounds fresh 1 tablespoon white corn syrup

rhubarb 2 egg whites
214 cups sugar 1\ cup heavy cream,
14 cup water whipped

Wash and trim the rhubarb. Cut into 1”
lengths and put into a saucepan with the
sugar and water. Bring to a boil and cook
gently until very tender. Rub through a food
mill or sieve, discarding the part that will not
go through. You will have about 4 cups purée.
Stir in the corn syrup, cool and pour into
freezing trays. Freeze until hard around the
edges but still soft in the center. Turn into a
cold bowl and beat thoroughly and quickly.
Whip the egg whites until they will hold soft
peaks and fold into the sherbet along with the
heavy cream. Return to the freezer and freeze
until firm. Spoon into a serving dish and gar-
nish with fresh or frozen raspberries. Makes 8
to 10 servings, about 6 cups.

GLAZED RASPBERRY-CREAM RING

11% teaspoons vanilla
| teaspoon grated
lemon rind or 2
tablespoons kirsch
3 cups raspberries
114 cups heavy cream
4 cup red-currant

jelly

Cover rice with water and bring to a boil
Cook gently for 5 minutes. Drain. Stir the
gelatin into the sugar and then into the cold
milk. Heat in the top of a double boiler. Add
the partially cooked rice, salt and vanilla.
Cover and cook over simmering water about
30 minutes, or until the rice is very tender.
Stir once or twice. Not all the liquid will be
absorbed. Remove from the heat and mix in
the lemon rind or, if you like, the kirsch.
Cool. Press 1 cup raspberries through a
strainer to remove the seeds. You should have
about 24 cup raspberry purée. Whip cream un-
til it stands in glossy peaks. When the rice
mixture is at room temperature, stir in the

1 cup rice

Water

1 envelope plus 2 tea-
spoons unflavored
gelatin

6 cup sugar

3 cups milk

Pinch salt

LADIES’ HOME JOUR)

whipped cream and purée. Turn into a&

mold. Cover and chill until set, about 8 ha}
When ready to serve, break the jelly up wi)
fork and heat gently until melted. Cool slig |
and pour over the remaining berries. Loc
edges of the mold with a knife and caref
turn out on a large serving plate. Garnish\}
the glazed berries. Makes 8 to 10 servings||

RUBY RHUBARB MOLD WITH | ft
CUSTARD

21% pounds fresh rhubarb

14 cup water

2 cups sugar

3 (3-0z.) packages
strawberry-flavored
gelatin

1-2 tablespoo
lemon juice) '
1 cup ginger ()
1 quart straw
berries, was)"
and hulled i
eo
Wash, trim and cut the fresh rhubarb int) !
pieces. Put into a heavy saucepan with }
water and sugar. Bring to a boil, cover }~
cook until very tender. Rub through af}:
mill or sieve, discarding the part that wi
go through. You should have about 5 ¢)'
of purée. Add the strawberry gelatin and hj ’
stirring constantly, until gelatin is disso}
about 5 minutes. Allow to cool slightly }},,
add the lemon juice to taste, ginger ale, }..
if you like, 1 tablespoon cherry heering. C a”
When mixture begins to thicken, pour injy,
6-cup mold, cover and chill 6 to 8 hours. 1}.
out onto serving platter and arrange bej)).
around mold. Serve with custard sauce. Mi}},
8 servings.

CUSTARD SAUCE:
4 egg yolks

14 cup sugar

1 teaspoon salt

14 teaspoon grated lemon |
2 cups milk i
14 teaspoon vanilla

|
Mix the egg yolks, sugar, salt and gn
lemon rind together in the top of a do
boiler. Scald the milk and gradually stir
the egg mixture. Place over simmering Wha
and cook, stirring constantly, until mix
thickens and coats the back of a spoon. |
move from the heat, cool thoroughly and
vanilla. Chill. Makes about 3 cups. |

Sweeten with
Sucaryl:

SWEETENER

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if Sucaryl
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a

NAY, 1962

imekaGGs
THAT CAME
TO DINNER

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 70

-RENCH BAKED EGGS AND ONIONS

| AUCE:

4 cup butter or 1 teaspoon salt

/ margarine Pinch cayenne

4, cup flour 14 teaspoon white
} cups light cream pepper

2 egg yolks
2 tablespoons milk

) ounces processed
Gruyére cheese

) tablespoons prepared

Dijon mustard

DASSEROLE :

\4 cup butter or V4 pound mushrooms,
| margarine wiped and sliced

| large onions, 12 hard-cooked eggs,
| peeled and sliced peeled

| very thin Paprika

Make a cream sauce in the top of a double
‘Wpoiler with the butter or margarine, flour and
, ream. Stir in cut-up cheese and all seasonings.
. h ix egg yolks with milk and add to cheese

/auce. Cook and stir 2-3 minutes. Melt the

4 cup butter or margarine in a large skillet.
‘dd onions and cook over low heat, stirring
Sonstantly until onions are tender but not
»rowned. Remove onions and reserve. Sauté
Jnushrooms until golden in same skillet (add
nore butter or margarine if necessary), then
nix with onions. Cut each egg into 4 circles.
“ayer onions, mushrooms and eggs into a
shallow 2-quart casserole. Pour sauce over all.
[ prinkle surface with paprika. Heat in a mod-
|#rate oven, 350° F., 15-20 minutes, then broil
i ei golden on top. Makes 6 servings.

(

PIPERADE

4 cup olive oil, ba- 1 sweet red pepper,
con drippings, but- seeded and finely
ter or margarine chopped or slivered
onions, peeled and 2 teaspoons salt
thinly sliced l6 teaspoon pepper
ripe tomatoes, 4 teaspoon rubbed

peeled and coarsely thyme

chopped \4 teaspoon marjoram
green peppers, 12 eggs

seeded and finely 2 tablespoons butter

chopped or slivered or margarine

eat oil, drippings, butter or margarine in a
Arge saucepan. Add onions, tomatoes, green
nd red peppers, | teaspoon salt, 14 teaspoon
epper, the thyme and marjoram. Cover and
look over low heat about 20 minutes, or until
egetables become soft and saucelike; stir fre-
uently. If vegetables are very liquid, uncover
an for last 5 minutes of eobking. Beat eggs
ightly and add remaining | teaspoon salt and
4 teaspoon pepper. Melt the butter or mar-
arine in a large skillet and pour in the eggs.
ook and stir very gently over low heat as for
rambled eggs, until beginning to set. Now
dd vegetables and stir into the eggs very
ghtly—do not try to mix thoroughly—and
emove from heat as soon as eggs are just
et and still very soft. Serve at once with garlic-
uttered toast if you like. Makes 6-8 servings.

EGGS CASINO

English muffins 1 can (14-0z.) arti-
sutter or margarine choke bottoms
slices cooked ham 8 eggs

about \%” thick 114-2 cups hollandaise
ripe tomatoes, sauce

peeled - Paprika

oast the muffins, spread with butter or mar-
arine and keep warm in a 200°-250° F. oven
ut large circles from the ham slices with
34%” cookie cutter (save the bits for sand-
iches or grind finely, mix with soft butter for a
elicious ham paté). Heat 1—2 tablespoons but-
pr Or margarine in a large skillet and sauté the
am circles slightly on both sides. Place one
am circle on each English-muffin half and
seep warm. Cut each tomato into 4 thick cir-
les. Add a little more butter or margarine to
e skillet and sauté the tomato slightly un-

til pale gold. Place one tomato circle on each
ham slice. Heat artichoke bottoms in their own
liquid. Drain gently. Arrange one artichoke
bottom on top of each tomato. Now poach the
eggs until just set and slide one egg onto each
artichoke bottom. Warm the hollandaise in the
top of a double boiler, then spoon 3 or 4 table-
spoons over each egg. Sprinkle with paprika.
Makes 8 servings.

OMELET ROYALE

SAUCE:
2 teaspoons cooking 1 cup canned tomato
oil purée

1 small onion, peeled %4 cup water
and finely chopped 4 teaspoon basil
8-10 button Pinch pepper
mushrooms, wiped, 4 teaspoon salt
cut in half 1 teaspoon sugar
1 clove garlic, peeled
and crushed

OMELET FILLING:

1 tablespoon cooking 1 cup sliced, washed
oil zucchini

16 green pepper, 14 teaspoon salt
seeded and thinly Pinch pepper
sliced or slivered Ys cup cooked petit

| pimiento, chopped peas
fine
OMELET:
6 eggs 2 tablespoons cooking

oil, butter or
margarine

Y4 teaspoon salt
Vg teaspoon pepper

For the sauce: Heat the oil in a saucepan and
sauté the onion, mushrooms and garlic until
pale golden. Add all remaining ingredients;
cover and simmer 20-30 minutes, stirring fre-
quently. For the filling: Heat oil in a large
skillet. Add the green pepper, pimiento,
zucchini, salt and pepper. Cover and simmer
over low heat, stirring frequently until vege-
tables are crisp-tender; do not overcook the
zucchini. At the last stir in the peas. Remove
from heat and keep warm. For the omelet: Beat
eggs until frothy; add salt and pepper. Heat
oil, butter or margarine in a 7” or 8” omelet
pan or skillet and pour in the eggs. Cook over
low heat. Shake the pan with one hand and stir
the mixture with a fork or spatula in the other;
let some of the egg run under the edges. When
omelet begins to set, stop stirring and place the
filling mixture in center of omelet. When ome-
let is firm and pale golden on the bottom and
top still creamy, loosen edges, tip the pan and
fold omelet over in half, using a spatula or pan-
cake turner. Slide the omelet out onto a serv-
ing platter and spoon a little of the sauce over
the top. Pass the remaining sauce. Makes
3—4 servings.

EGG SOUFFLE FLORENTINE

1 teaspoon salt

14 teaspoon pepper

lg teaspoon nutmeg

l4 cup grated
Parmesan cheese

4 eggs, separated

14 cup chopped
cooked spinach

3 tablespoons butter
or margarine

14 cup flour

1 cup light cream

Make sure the spinach is very well drained;
press as dry as possible in a strainer, then
measure 4 cup. Melt the butter or margarine
in a saucepan. Stir in the flour and add cream
a little at a time, stirring constantly until
smooth. Cook and stir until very thick. Add
salt, pepper, nutmeg and Parmesan. Cook and
stir over low heat until cheese blends into
sauce. Remove from heat and cool. Beat egg
yolks until thick. Stir into cooled cheese sauce
thoroughly, also mix in the spinach. Beat egg
whites until they form soft peaks. Gently fold
egg whites into spinach-cheese-sauce mixture
Turn into a buttered 114-quart soufflé dish
Bake in a moderately slow oven. 325° F., for 50
minutes or until “puffed” and golden on top
Serve witha mushroom sauce if you like. Makes
4—6 servings

+ MACARONI

FRANCO-AMERICAN IS A TRADEMARK OF

MACARONI 'N’
SAUSAGE ITALIENNE

Quick main dish with
a new Italian touch

Here’s a meal that captures the flavor of sunny Italy in
minutes—FRANCO-AMERICAN Macaroni, link sausage, and
with just a touch of oregano to tempt every taste. Try this

savory treat soon.

1 pound small link sausage

Y, cup chopped onion

Y, teaspoon leaf oregano, crushed
2 cans Franco-American Macaroni
1 cup cooked peas

In covered saucepan, cook sausage
in small amount water for a few
minutes. Uncover; brown slowly
Remove sausage; cut into thirds.
Pour off all but 2 tablespoons drip-
pings. Add onion and oregano; cook
until onion is tender. Add maca-
roni, peas, and cooked sausage
Heat, stirring now and then. 4 to 6
servings.

FRANCO-P

acai

FRANCO:

Macarotl

WITH CHEESE SAUCE

SOUP COMPANY

P a taut ‘
eee
> | Wl iS ‘

a os

109

Ine
CARLY

GROWING
TEARS

Cost of the right start in life for five children? “All
your money, time, love,” to Hal and Nan Mapes.

By BETTY COE SPICER

PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOSEPH DI PIETRO

The little girl watched the broad-shouldered man next door
showing one of his four daughters how to handle a new
bike. Yesterday she’d seen him coaching a Little League
baseball game (his son was catcher). Through the summer
she’d seen him swimming with his children most after-
noons at the community pool or helping train their new
spaniel puppy. The little girl was curious.

“Daddy,” she asked her father when he came home that
night, ‘is Mr. Mapes a millionaire? He never works like
the other daddies around here.”

When her question was reported to Hal Mapes by his
friend and neighbor, he roared with laughter and took the
joke home to share with his pretty wife, Nan. Hal is defi-
nitely not a millionaire. Last year his gross income as a spe-
cial sales agent for a life-insurance company was $13,643.04.
It varies according to his sales, but his monthly average
is $1136.92 (before taxes and the other deductions that come
out of it). For a family of seven, living in a high-tax suburb
20 miles from New York City, this hardly qualifies as “‘mil-
lionaire’’ income. But Hal feels rich.

His wife, Nan, is a financial manager to be proud of. And
they have discovered that they own another valuable as-
set—time. Time that can be spent or saved just like money.
Used wisely, it buys things money can’t buy.

What it buys for Hal Mapes is a thing increasingly (and
according to family-counseling experts worrisomely) rare
in the lives of most busy American fathers. It buys him
close daily companionship with his children. Many of his
business appointments are in the evening, so Hal can often
borrow afternoon hours to play with the children, coach
them at sports, ‘‘or just be there when they come home
from school in case there’s something they want to talk
over with me.”’

Hal, 38, Nan, 35, together with Hal Jr., 12, Susan, 10,
Nancy, 8, Diane, 6, and Mary Parks, just turned 2, live in
a trim seven-room house on a hilly street in Glen Rock,
New Jersey. Glen Rock is part of a vast, crowded sub-
urban complex, but it manages to retain much of the
friendly, old-fashioned feel of a small town. ““We couldn’t be

Nan says, “Today more than ever there is a need to teach a child—for his
sake and the world’s —that life is both joy and responsibility, gifts and
giving, always a process of learning, and parents are the vilal teachers.”

For colorful reprint of this little charmer, write to: Gerber Baby Foods, Dept. 145-2, Fremont, Michigan

How wonderful! |S Baby Week

—

tes

Bringing Up Baby®

~ we
~~

Hints Collected by
= Mrs. Dan Gerber,
ent Mother of 5

Whether it be a shy, sweet smile, the up-
ward reach of rosy arms or just a charming
coo, a baby brightens our days. . . gives
wings to our dreams. How wonderful to
have a baby!

How wonderful, too, to know that there
are so many fine products designed es-
pecially for your baby’s comfort, pleasure
and nutritional well-being. During Baby
Week our “Little Girl Blue” in the picture
will be beaming in stores all over the
country to guide you to the many wonder-
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baby. Look for her . . . she'll be waiting
for you.

Feature attractions. Among the wide va-
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you'll find High Meat Dinners featured...

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oods to hel: ' 1d-

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Five varie ) PE

More self-feeding strategy. When your
baby shows signs of wanting to feed him-
self, you can help his “do-it-yourself”
efforts by providing the proper tools:
(1) A straight-handled spoon that’s easy
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Refreshing story with a vitamin viewpoint.
Gerber Strained Juices are brimming with
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am, A ;
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ud to say:
S are business

r on! isiness }’

110

luckier in our neighbors,”’ Nan says warmly.
“Or the children in their friends.”

Taxes are not low—the Mapeses pay $65 a
month property tax on their home. “But we're
convinced that we get the most for every tax
dollar because so much of it goes into support-
ing our excellent schools and recreational
facilities like playgrounds and the community
swimming pool. When you have five children,
those are the things you think about.”

Nan grew up in Glen Rock and her parents
still live just around the corner. When she
waves her brood off to the Richard E. Byrd
Elementary School in the morning, every tree-
shaded step of the route they take is familiar to
her. She knows most of the local patrolmen
and crossing guards who watch over the chil-
dren. Hal, Susan, Nancy and Diane study in
classrooms their mother studied in, learn their
three R’s from some of the same teachers who
taught her. “Plus having all the educational
advances of the past twenty-five years, of
course.”” Schools are not overcrowded and
they have not had to resort to split sessions as
have so many suburban schools. In choosing
Glen Rock as a place to bring up their chil-
dren, Hal and Nan feel that they have chosen
well.

The day gets off to an early start these May
mornings. Dark-haired Nan wakes just before
5 o'clock. A few minutes later, in tailored
skirt, crisp white shirt and moccasins, ,she is
on her way downstairs. Shushing an ecstatic
greeting from Mopsy, the brown-and-white
spaniel, she brews a hasty cup of coffee. While
the water boils she steals time for a long, sat-
isfied look from her kitchen window. The sun
still isn’t high enough to gild the lovely curve
of the white birch tree in the backyard or dry
the dew sparkles from the lawn that slopes
gently down to the small woods behind the
house.

Nan cherishes this quiet time before the
bustle of the day really begins. ‘““My time to
think and plan—and count blessings.”’ First
among these, the almost miraculous survival
of twenty-year-old bombardier Harold E.
Mapes, on the day that his bomber was shot
down over occupied France during World
War II. The only survivor, he “parachuted
right into the hands of waiting Germans and
spent fourteen months a prisoner of war,
wondering whether I was ever going to get
home, realizing how much there was in life
that I didn’t know about, and figuring how I
could get myself into college and learn some
of it.” The GI bill, plus an athletic scholar-
ship, took Hal to Davidson College in North
Carolina. At the Woman’s College of the Uni-
versity of North Carolina, Nancy Romefelt
was working toward her chosen career, teach-
ing. When Hal met vivid, laughing Nancy, he
decided, *“‘That’s the one!”” Happily, his sure-
ness was mutual.

They were married when Nan graduated,
while Hal still had a year and a half of work for
his degree. It was not easy. “I wasn’t really
prepared for college,” he says frankly. “I
hadn’t taken the right courses in high school,
or worked out any real plan for my future.
Without Nan’s help I might have thrown in
the sponge. We decided one thing right then:
our children were going to be prepared.”

=
Te newly married Mapeses had $376 in
savings between them, lived on an income of
$115 a month. Of all their wedding gifts
(‘and some were family silver and china that
we still cherish’) the one they appreciated
most just then was a box of groceries. Home
was two drafty, sparsely furnished cubicles in
a conyerted Army barracks. Nan, who had
planned to supplement their income by work-
ing, got pregnant (“and sick, worse luck,
though I’ve never been sick with any of my
other babies”) within months. “We knew we
could call on our parents for help, but we
took pride in not doing it.”” Hal Jr. was born
on the day his father took his final exams
Before Hal could decide on his future ca-
reer—once he had thought of playing pro
football or baseball, both loved and played
with professional skill—the Korean War
broke out and he was back in uniform. His
World War II experience made him valuable
as an instructor, and this time he was not sent
overseas. But it meant another sixteen months
of military service, no real home for Nan and

LADIES’ HOME JOURN§,

the babies—pretty blond Susan was born
1951—more delay in deciding on a future. §..
the time Hal was free to go looking for his f§ ..
civilian job, he was 29 years old. ;
That first job was with the Prudential Lf;
Insurance Company in Newark, New Jers§,
To his surprise (“I'd never thought of my:
as a salesman’) he found that not only did
have a talent for selling, he loved it. Peo.
responded to his easygoing friendliness ¢
genuine interest; he liked talking to the,
hearing their hopes and problems—‘“I'd Ff,
plenty of both myself.” He still loves his wo
has “400-plus clients and 400-plus friend
though he admits that once in a while he j
doesn’t hit it off with a would-be client wh,
doesn’t share Hal’s belief in his own appro
to providing for his family and its futu
Proof of that belief: Hal himself carries $e a
000 of life and income-protection insurance}.
a monthly cost of $110.

_
| he two years the Mapeses lived in a fi
room garden apartment near Newark, “sav }.
every cent over $150 a week once Hal’s ea}.
ings reached that point.” This gave thf’
$3700 for a down payment on a home 2
essential furniture. They knew exactly
house they wanted. It belonged to friends wy
were retiring to Florida. “We didn’t have qu} .
enough money,” Nan says. “I must have ask}
Hal a hundred times, ‘Do we dare make } ,
offer?’ Finally we did, and I think they und, ,
stood how much the house meant to us beca’
they accepted. The day we moved in we
too lucky and happy to care about having
comfortable chairs to sit on and no place
keep our clothes except suitcases. We bou
furniture as we could afford it.”

This morning, on the dot of 5, Nan is doy
Stairs in the basement recreation room do}.
(as she usually must to meet her own bi
schedule) two things at once—ironing dres
for the girls and attending a sunrise cla]
room program on television; subject,
tronomy. An immediate connection betweé
the steam iron and the stars may not be ei,
to see, but both are part of a plan. Nan dd...
the family laundry to save money: $32,(
takes a lot of saving, and that is about the le
working capital they feel they will need
finance college for the four older children. (
little reprieve then before Mary Parks reac!
college age!) As for the astronoi}_
course—‘“‘I have to keep up.”’ Nan qualified},
a science teacher before she married H}
plans to take up her teaching career as soon
Mary Parks is old enough to start school. **|=
be helping with the children’s education, an
like teaching.”

At 7, Nan wakes Hal and the children. Ty
year-old Mary Parks (named for Nan’s sist
is already awake. Planting a quick kiss on 1
of the curly blond head, Nan dresses the bz
in her morning coverall and carries her do
to her high chair. ““Mary Parks was our bot
baby. There are nearly five years between |},
and Diane, and before she came we thought «
family was complete. The other children w
all close together and when they were babic¢
was always too busy to play with them a
enjoy them as much as I wanted to. It’s diff
ent with Mary Parks and she’s a special joy
all of us. If she weren’t such a sweet baby sh
be horribly spoiled.”

It was the day they brought Mary Pa
home from the hospital that Hal and Nan f
realized how short the growing years are, h
quickly tomorrow becomes today, how mt
it was going to cost to educate five childf
They feel that college for their daughters is j
as important as college for their son. G
grow up, marry, have children of their oy
““Educate a man and you educate
individual—educate a woman and you educ
a family,’ Nan quotes a founder of her colle
That was when they really began to p)
for the future.

Nan has breakfast almost ready when fF
Jr. comes pounding downstairs to take Moy
for a morning run in the woods. Susan c%
down to ask where her blue sweater is. (
the hall closet.”?) Nancy finds a button miss
on the blouse she absolutely has to wear-
day. (“Bring it to me, I’ll sew it on.”) Dié
can’t find a book she brought home fr
school yesterday. (“Have you looked on §
coffee table in the living room?”) By the tif?

AY, 1962

al Sr. comes down at 7:30, breakfast (fruit
ice, eggs, toast and milk) is ready for him on
e table.
ut:S important for a family to eat together,”
an feels. ““No snatch-something-from-the-
frigerator-and-run. That’s bad nutrition and
‘ d psychology.” (A view supported by many
ppPerts, at least one of whom says “‘85 percent
} juvenile delinquency in America could be
/minated if every family ate just one meal a
red together at the family table.) Nan admits
a few hectic years when all the children were
nall. ““We never had a meal without spills
“Vd indigestion. But it was worth it; now it
jves us a good start for the day.”
“|Hal Jr. and Susan are on the school safety
trol, so they leave a few minutes before
tht, riding their bicycles. There are four bi-
If icles in the family garage; average cost,
"9.50. Last fall Hal and Susan both needed
w ones at once. Hal’s was worn, but Susan’s
is plainly outgrown. The budget allowed
f lly one, so Hal and Nan called council.
rls ride bikes a shorter time than boys do,”
Wey pointed out. “If we buy Susan a new one
“|s year, Hal, can you manage with your old
“te until next year?” Hal Jr. agreed.
|*He has generosity and common sense,”
tn says gratefully. She is quietly proud of
aft son’s popularity at school, his excellent
“lades and his growing collection of sports
spPhies. He excels at swimming, baseball,
,|Sketball and football. (This pleases his
’ her, who is very much aware that all-
‘lund interests and abilities can count heavily
x2 boy’s favor when it comes to college
~polarships.)
ancy and Diane start for school at 8. A
nute later Hal Sr. heads for his office in
bwark. Usually Hal drives the small car and
ves the larger station wagon for the many
_auffeuring and shopping chores that are part
id an’s day. “Our one real luxury,” the station
}gon was bought two years ago for $1800
‘fis their old car. Monthly payments of $60
jlsoon be completed and that money can then
‘diverted to the college fund. “We hope!”
hile Nan hurries through dishwashing
‘Yd house tidying (the children make their
m beds and keep their rooms picked up—
fey they try, and that’s what counts”),
ery Parks plays contentedly in her pen. Nan
“Its two loads of laundry through washer and
ther most days, five on Saturdays. “With a
ily of seven it’s easier to wash every day.”
oe does everything but Hal’s shirts. “Sending

any

V0l}

‘id

0
led

ist WHAT THEY GET
on ip

a
“| WHERE IT GOES

lll GENERAL FAMILY EXPENSES

Mf Federal income tax
Social Security tax
ib Food (including cleaning supplies) ;

dif

Insurance (life, income protection)

gas, tires, repairs, etc., on both cars)

af Business expenses (parking, tolls, phone, policy wallets

‘I for clients, entertainment, etc.) .

‘Medical expenses (hospitalization, ‘doctor, dentist,

1 oculist, medicines, vitamins)
.s Church and charities

@} Recreation. vacation fund, occasional baby- -sitters.

‘} Personal care (haircuts, toiletries)

_ | Savings (cash $20, bond-a-month, $18.75)
| Miscellaneous (stationery, stamps, gifts, etc.)

i} CHILDREN'S ACTIVITIES

Music lessons (Sue and Nancy)
Dancing lessons (Diane) .
} Books, magazines, records

4 Scout and Brownie dues, uniforms, camp equipment,

Nancy’s summer riding lessons
|} Swimming fees, suits, dues, ‘
4} Bicycles and repairs, toys

‘Y” dues and meets

them out was the very first housekeeping
extravagance I allowed myself.”

The phone rings several times. Nan says a
delighted yes to a Friday luncheon for a visit-
ing school friend (“Mother will take Mary
Parks’’), a regretful no to dinner and bridge
on Thursday (“Hal has a business appoint-
ment”). This is her afternoon with Nancy’s
Brownie troop at 3:30; she is coleader with
another third-grade mother. Over the phone
they consult about materials (““We’re making
place mats? Leaves, and pressing paper?’’)
and refreshments (“Cookies and lemonade?”
Hal phones to say he’ll be home at about 3:15.

At 11:15 the children come home for
lunch—soup, toasted cheese on a single slice
of whole-wheat bread, milk and fruit. Ad-
mittedly “a little nutty about nutrition,” Nan
spends $25 a month on vitamins, is a firm be-
liever in raw fruits and vegetables for snacks—
“the children would rather have apples and
carrots than candy’’—reserves cakes and pies
for special occasions like birthdays. “We’re
all inclined to put on weight.” Favorite
money-and-calorie savers: dry skim milk
liquefied and mixed half and half with ho-
mogenized milk, less expensive cuts of lean
beef treated with tenderizer. All-time anytime
family favorite—hamburgers. Nan buys quan-
tities of lean chopped chuck at special sales,
freezes it ready-shaped in sandwich-sized
servings.

For half an hour the house is full of noise
and laughter. “I’m in a play,” Diane an-
nounces. “I’m a tree!’’ Nancy has a drawing
to display. Susan takes five minutes to prac-
tice a difficult passage in her music lesson.
Mary Parks crows with delight as Hal Jr.
comes in with a “‘Hi, Parksie!’’ and swings her
into her high chair.

At 12:15 the children hurry back to school
and Mary Parks naps. Nan cuts out a skirt for
Susan, puts the finishing touches on a lacy
turquoise dress she knit for herself. She makes
most of her own and the girls’ clothes, “‘a real
moneysaver.”’ Cost of her smart winter coat
of black, rough-textured wool: $20, including
the weatherproof lining. Two favorite suits, a
soft green-and-brown tweed and a cherry-red
wool, cost $7 each; a blue silk dress, $6; a
simple cotton, $2. Before school starts in
September, she checks and repairs wardrobes,
buys the girls two dresses each and makes
two more, plus skirts and blouses. There’s
no resentment over wearing hand-me-downs.
Eying a pretty blue cotton Nan was ironing,

—

yuOw THE MAPESES SPEND THEIR MONEY EACH MONTH

Hal’s income varies from month to month, current average. . $1136.92

90.00
12.50
132.00

m Sasi house payments and insurance, $110.67; property taxes,
$65; repairs and improvements, $20; utilities, heat, light,

if water, $44; phone, $15; payment on freezer, $14)

gq Clothing (purchases, $30; cleaning and repair, $20)

268.67
90.00
110.00

147.00
66.00

65.00
31.00
20.00

8.00
38.75
10.00

54 Car expenses (including $60 payment on station wagon,

$1048.92

24.00
2.00
9.00

20.00
12.00
10.00

Miscellaneous (school insurance, PTA dues, ‘school

eat

supplies, trips and parties, pocket money)

15.00
88.00

TOTAL $1136.92

VIGE

What do DOCTORS do
when they have

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112

Nancy sighed longingly, “I just can’t wait for
Susie to outgrow that!”

‘T want them never to feel poorly dressed.”
Nan says. “If they never do, clothes won’t be
a major thing in life.”

Matching red velveteen jumpers made three
years ago ($9 copies of a $29.50 model) are

| still winter “‘bests.”’ Tips: “I take the hems out

every time they’re cleaned. They come back
unmarked, can be hemmed to a new length”;

| she buys good material, well-designed, non-

fussy patterns, relies on “good line, pretty
color, a touch of handwork”’ for smartness.

Nan’s mother taught her to sew, but it was
her father who provided the incentive to learn.
Nan and her sisters could have anything they
wanted by way of dresses or sweaters, he told
them when they were teenagers, so long as
they sewed or knit it themselves. “We made
mistakes,” Nan says, “but dad’s psychology
was good. We learned and we're grateful now.”
She plans to teach her daughters the same
useful skills.

School coats (pile-lined storm coats with

| hoods) are bought every other year, costing

from $10 (“‘a real bargain!) to $25. Hal pays

| an average of $85 for his suits and buys one a

year, “‘sometimes two if there is extra money.”
Largest item in the clothing budget: children’s
shoes; two or three pairs of school shoes each

| per year at $9 to $10 a pair, one pair each of $10

Sunday-school shoes and $5 summer sandals,
two pairs each of $4 sneakers. Nan herself
buys one good pair of shoes a year (“about

| $20") plus three pairs of loafers ($9) or

sneakers ($4). ““My good shoes are black,
brown or navy pumps and they last for

| years. I did have to replace the navy ones this

Easter though. Susan looked at me on the
way to church and said, “Mother, you look
nice, but those round-toed shoes are awfully
old-fashioned when everybody else wears
pointed toes!”

Another chore for today—checking the
monthly budget. ““Though you can’t call it a
budget in the strict sense of allotting x dollars
for each item every month. We can’t budget
that way because Hal’s income is never the

| Same two months in a row. So what we do is
| pay fixed bills, buy essentials and then let

money accumulate until we have enough to
use for something we’ve decided on ahead
of time. We try to avoid two kinds of buying—
installment and spur-of-the-moment.”

Nan writes a $35 check for Hal’s eye ex-
amination and new glasses, and a $44 check
to the dentist for the regular family checkup.

The college fund has first call on money
not budgeted for current needs, but Hal and
Nan agree that special instruction for the
children is a good investment. Piano lessons
for Susan, who loves music, cost $12 a month.
Nancy is also taking piano lessons this year
(another $12 a month) though her real love is
horseback riding (the $3 lessons are a once-
a-week summer treat) and her bedtime prayers
often close with a fervent, ‘““‘Dear God, please
give me a horse of my own!”

For two years Susan and Nancy studied
ballet with a group sponsored by the PTA and
taught by a former Sadlers-Wells ballerina at a
bargain rate of $1 a lesson for each child.
This year Diane has started with the class and
loves it. Books, magazines and records are
regular purchases for the children, library
cards are well used. Scout and Brownie dues,
uniforms, camp and equipment average an-
other $20 a month over the year. Nancy goes
to day camp in the summer. Last year Susan

| had two weeks at Girl Scout camp; cost, $100.

=
eae vacations may be a trip to visit
Hal’s mother in Florida or Nan’s sister in
North Carolina, a rented cottage at the shore
for two weeks, a sightseeing trip to Washington.
Nan’s dream of a cross-country trip by car is
shared by Hal, but he vetoes her suggestion
that they camp out along the way. “With seven
of us, think how much money we could save.”
Hal’s firm reply: “I had enough sleeping on
the ground in the Army.”

Also considered good investments are pur-
chases that save money, like the freezer:
monthly payments, $14; monthly savings on
food, $20 to $25. Money spent to increase the
value of their property is well spent, too, they
feel. Last year’s project: screening the large
porch at the back of the house to add a new

LADIES’ HOME JOUR

summertime living area. Hal and a carpep i
friend did the work; cost, $600. an
The house is crowded since Mary Pai
came. It has four bedrooms, really needs fi} ;
Hal Jr. has one, and Nan feels that Susan)
ten, is old enough so that having a room}{
her own is important. Nancy and Diane sh
happily, but when Mary Parks came th
was no place to put her crib except in Me
parents’ room. Hal and Nan worked oud
plan for converting the attached garage ip
a downstairs bedroom/den. Then they fo
that Glen Rock zoning laws require
house in their neighborhood to have a gara
Estimates on building a new garage befi
they could start converting the old @.
ran to $1000, even with Hal and his frie
doing most of the work. Temporarily,
plan had to be shelved.

hice a baby in the house again ling.
some of Nan’s activities—PTA, work }

service organizations, the Sunday-school ¢lf)
she used to teach—but she plans to res

them when Mary Parks 1s a little older. “Jj
and I both believe in making contributiong
the community.” Best contribution: “Givj-
something of yourself, something you Ie}.
a talent or skill that only you may be ablej.
give.’ She feels that Hal’s Little League coaj,
ing falls into this category.

By 3:30 the house is filled with noise é
bustle again. Nan and Nancy have left
their Brownie meeting, but Hal has come he}
and is playing with Mary Parks and Mo}.
in the backyard. Susan practices on the pig.
so she'll be note-perfect for her Saturdj.
morning lesson. Diane is at her ballet ck
Hal Jr. is playing baseball. Homework cot
next. House rule: no television except
weekends. Hal Jr. and Susan swim at
“Y” in Ridgewood four nights a week, |
(or Nan) drives them there at 5:30. On Sate
day nights there are swimming meets and
and Nan make a point of attending to ch
the children on. Hal Jr. frequently wins @
Susan’s swimming is improving so rapif-
that she looks like a potential winner too.

Dinner hour is adjustable to the even
schedule. ““We can have it as early as |
o'clock if the children don’t have after-sch
snacks,” Nan says. “Or we can wait u
seyen-thirty when Hal Jr. and Susie are h
from swimming.” (Swimming expenses—fif*
tank suits and ““Y”’ dues—$12 a month “#*
well worth it.’’) ;

Nancy and Diane have their baths
the older children are swimming, and arep™
bed by 8 o’clock. Mary Parks goes to beg
6. After dinner Hal usually leaves for oneg®
his evening business appointments. By 9®
time he gets home—‘‘any time from ten
midnight’’—the children are asleep. If he if"
too late, Nan waits up, using the quiet time§&
reading, sewing, knitting, writing letters. If
has no business appointment, they may hi
friends in for a buffet dinner and talk, ~iR!
bridge, go bowling or see a movie. “

On special occasions there are trips i
New York. For their last wedding anniversi:
Hal surprised Nan with tickets to a hit
she had been longing to see, arranging
them months in advance and signing WH
trusted baby-sitter to stay with the child
The afternoon of their anniversary saw
beginning of a blizzard. “But we bundled
in storm coats and boots, put a shovel in
small car and went anyway. The thede
was almost empty, but we had a wonde
time, loved every minute of the play. Dri
home, the drifts looked higher than thé By
and the snowplows were barely keeping Sif
lanes open. We made it back to Glen Rock,
got stuck in a huge drift at the foot of our!
So we woke mother and dad and spent
night with them. ‘What on earth are youd
out inastorm like this?’ mother asked in ho}
when she saw us.

““Why, we had the tickets,’ I told her. %
didn’t think we were going tq waste them

To friends who ask Nan if she doesn't
tired of being tied down so much of the tif}.
she says with absolute honesty (and moret
a little bewilderment at being asked the q)
tion), “Why? There’s no place I'd rather
than with the children. Their growing yi

are so short—too precious to lose a day)
I ~~

a ee

Ss = =

= ee

—— =

AY, 1962

FIM NOVAK:
\WHY I’M AFRAID
)F MARRIAGE”

DNTINUED FROM PAGE 41

Kim’s love life, according to her mother,
Manche Novak, began in grammar school,
hen “the telephone rang all the time for
im.’’ Her mother recalls the devotion Kim
ad her older sister, Arlene, gave to animals.
The girls hada sign in our window on Spring-
eid Avenue, ‘Stray pets taken in.’ They were
Jways excited about a date or a new boy-
tiend, but Kim wouldn’t go out if one of the
himals was sick. I didn’t realize how much
he pets meant to her until, in her teens, she
las still insisting on burials in the backyard.
he was old enough by then to be less sensitive
pout stray dogs. Once she found a wounded
y, and tried to nurse it back to health in a jar
‘ith punched holes in the lid. She couldn’t
land seeing anything ailing.”
/During her high-school days, Kim had
mbivalent dreams of becoming a nun. Her
/st serious romance occurred when she was at
Yright Junior College, with a boy from
Vorthwestern. It followed a pattern of near-
jarriage and retreat that has recurred to this
Ay.
“When we went to buy the engagement
g, | couldn’t stand it. [cried so hard that the
by brought me home. He wisely decided that |
idn’t really want to marry him. To get even, I
yt engaged to a German baron in Chicago,
at I didn’t love him either, and I called the
hole thing off. After that I took a modeling
b traveling across the country.”
After her discovery in Hollywood, her first
\portant romance was with Mac Krim,
‘eater owner and real-estate investor, twenty
ais her senior. Over six feet tall, rugged and
unt-faced, Krim remembers their first date.
She hadn’t wanted to get dressed up, but
hen we went into the restaurant she had
on, they wouldn’t seat us because she was
sweater and slacks. So we went to a small
imburger place, which she kept saying she
xed better, as if to reassure herself.
“We dated often and fell in love. We talked
»out marriage, but then her stardom took
is She studied dancing, acting, her scripts,
ir hours every day. There was never any time
ir us to be together. I’d tell her not to take it
so seriously, but she wanted to be perfect,
e said. We saw less and less of each other. I'd
ve married her, but she forgot all our talk
Out marriage after she skyrocketed to fame.
he’s still too consumed by her work. | doubt
she has much social life. Millions of guys
ould flip to take her anywhere, but she hides
vay in her mountaintop with Warlock and
ewacket and her moods.”
Kim recalls her romance with Krim vividly.
Ne were inseparable for a while. We’d joke
pout what a funny name Kim Krim would
». Mac and I were in love»but he didn’t un-
stand me when I wanted to be serious. I’d
ention a poem or an article I’d read, and
*d stop listening. I realized suddenly that we
dn’t have as many interests in common as we
d thought. He wanted to see the sunny side
everything. I didn’t—and don’t.”

bout Frank Sinatra, with whom she starred
|The Man With the Golden Arm, Kim says
'e was drawn to his sensitivity and thought-
Iness. “To this day he’ll send me a bunch of
dlets with a note: ‘I saw these and they re-
inded me of you. Love, Frank.’ Naturally, I
uld never forget he was Frank Sinatra. I
ed him in an admiring kind of way, but I
uldn’t live the way he wanted to live.
“T began to realize with Frank that men,
en though they vow they love you, don’t
€ you the way you are. They want you to
ange. For instance, Frank loves parties. |
ed staying up at some of those parties, but I
uldn’t keep my eyes open. I’m a daytime
rson, Frank is a nighttime person. We’d go
a party, and he’d just be winding up when I
anted to go home. | felt guilty because I
uldn’t keep up, yet I was bored by midnight
cause I was so sleepy. Frank burns his
ndle at both ends, and doesn’t need as much
ep as most people. I like at least seven hours.
iS way of life and mine turned out to be two
/nflicting things, and we would have been

EE ee nn

driven farther and farther apart if we had tried
to make a thing of it.”

Sinatra says that of all the girls he has
dated, Kim is one of the most honest and most
easily hurt. “She’s so touchy, she withdraws
from life. But she says what she thinks and
she’s completely without malice. I think she
ought to get married. Marriage would help her
get away from herself.”

After Sinatra, Kim visited Europe and, at a
dinner given by Elsa Maxwell, met Count
Mario Bandini, of an aristocratic Roman fam-
ily. “It was my first trip abroad, and Mario
asked if he could show me around. We went
boating. I liked him, but with the kind of pub-
licity I get, there are too many strikes against
me. Everyone’s out to make a sizzling love
affair out of the smallest romance, and conse-
quently nothing develops. I wanted Mario to
visit here, but I was too busy making a movie
or he was tied up in Rome and we never got to
know each other better, although he still
writes. One thing I can say about my boy-
friends—we’re all on talking or letter-writing
terms. Even one of the boys who liked me in
grammar school still sends me valentines.”

A the first Cannes Film Festival she at-
tended, Kim met Prince Aly Khan. Invited to
spend the afternoon with the Aga Khan and
his Begum at their sumptuous Cannes villa,
Kim went, expecting nothing more than pub-
licity. “After the photographers finished their
picture-taking of the Aga Khan, the Begum
and me, Aly came in from the garden. He wore
faded Levis and a soiled shirt. His hands were
grimy from working in the earth, and I
couldn’t take my eyes off them. They were
strong, powerful, muddy from working in the
rose garden. When we shook hands, he apolo-
gized for the dirt, and I told him I loved the
earth. He smiled and asked if 1 wanted to see
his garden. We walked around and around the
garden, and he asked if | liked horses. We
made our first date to go horseback riding.

“I loved the quick brisk way he walked. I
had to run to keep up with him, but I didn’t
mind. I liked it. He took deep breaths of air,
and I had the feeling of a man enjoying every
minute of life, who wasn’t going to waste one
precious second of it. Whenever I was with
Aly, I felt sorry for all the people around us
who seemed half alive.

“Once when we were riding in Normandy I
fell as we jumped over a hedge, rolled, landed
in a red-ant hive and broke a mirror in my
pocket. Aly laughed so hard I held back my
tears.

“But | could never get serious about him,
although he talked about marriage. | liked
him, but you never really knew what he felt.
He cared for so many women. | doubt if any
woman would ever feel secure with him as a
husband. He just loved women too much.”

With Cary Grant, whom she got to know
while she was filming Vertigo, Kim believes
publicity killed any chance they had for ro-
mance. “The publicity began mowing us
down. At the Cannes Film Festival, Cary and
I danced all night at the Russian Embassy
dance. Everyone kept bringing me flowers, and
I felt like a bride. Cary’s not the outdoor type,
but he has more physical energy than any
other man I’ve known, including Frank
Sinatra. We danced until dawn. If you call two
people having fun a romance, they say we had
a romance. But the publicity killed any oppor-
tunity for us to get serious.”

Lieutenant Colonel Rafael Trujillo, the
cavalier son of the late dictator of the Do-
minican Republic, is another man Kim Novak
considered marrying. Trujillo was introduced
to her at a dinner party given by Zsa Zsa
Gabor. Zsa Zsa hoped she and Trujillo would
get along.

“And we did,” Kim admits. “I didn’t know
he was married and had six children. All that
came out later. Everybody wants to make
Ramfis out to be a wild, love-’em-and-leave-
em playboy, but all I know is that he reached
me. He wrote me a poem every day. He gave
me a Mercedes Benz. So many Americans
think if a man gives a woman a beautiful gift
she has to returna favor. Ramfis isn’t like that.
His wealth affords him the pleasure of making
the people he loves happy. I loved him for his
selflessness. We saw a great, great deal of each
other, and we didn’t go in for jazzy night

clubs. We’d go on Sunday outings at Laguna
or to a movie and eat hot dogs afterward. He
asked me to marry him, and I almost did.

“His mother and father sent me a gold medal
of the Virgin Mary; their daughter, Angelita,
came to meet me; and he begged to meet my
parents.

“Everyone says Ramfis deceived me. I don’t
believe that. I failed Ramfis. I failed him be-
cause I allowed public opinion and the studio’s
feelings to overrule my own. I can hardly for-
give myself for this, for letting outsiders tell
me how to feel about someone. Ramfis wrote
a letter, which I cherish, apologizing for any
trouble he caused me. Trouble? How can a

113

man who sends to Spain for flamenco dancers
to please you cause you trouble? I caused him
trouble, and I'll never let the studio tell me
how to feel about someone again.

“The trouble, when you really get down to
facts, is that too many people have the wrong
thoughts. Everybody thinks the worst—that a
married man is taking advantage of a single
woman. Well, there’s nothing wrong, in my
opinion, if a man who’s unhappy wants to
get to know someone and find a little happi-
ness for himself.

“The real trouble is that everybody thinks
you're having an affair. In the movie I just
finished, Boys’ Night Out, all the male costars

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114

want to meet Cathy, the girl I play, because
they think something’s missing from their
marriages and they’re all convinced it’s sex.
When Cathy meets each of the guys she senses
his frustration. But in each instance, it’s some-
thing other than sex.

“Tony Randall, for instance, never gets a
chance to finish a sentence at home. His wife is
always interrupting. But Cathy lets him talk
on and on, and he’s in seventh heaven. Howie
Morris’s wife is constantly on a diet, and the
poor guy never gets a square meal. All Cathy
has to do is fix him a bang-up dinner and he’s
happy. Howard Duff loves to tinker with TV

sets and hi-fis. His wife insists that they get a

HKems

feminine napkins.
So soft you forget them,
so safe that you can.

professional repairman. Cathy lets him fiddle
with the hi-fi, the sink, the radio, and he
couldn’t be happier. And being a bachelor girl,
I know this is true. Men want a chance to ex-
press themselves. And marriage, with its end-
less adjustments, suffocates instead of in-
spiring them.”

Kim’s strong resistance to marriage is based
on more than her film studio’s disapproval of
her various love affairs, or even her fears that
her suitors have not understood her. One of
her beaux comments: “Kim has built up this
thing of personal freedom to the ridiculous
point that if and when she marries, she’ll
not only expect separate bedrooms, she’ll de-
mand separate houses.”

Kim agrees: ““What’s wrong with a wife
having a house of her own, a kind of studio?
What I’m afraid of is that with my great need
for freedom and personal expression, I could
destroy a man. I wonder if I could take a back
seat to him. I’d like to, because I want chil-
dren. But I’m afraid of being graspy. I want
the man to be strong, to make all the big de-
cisions. And I’ve been making them for so
long now, I wonder if I could give in.

“IT probably get this strength from my
mother, who kept telling me I was the master
of my own ship. To conquer my shyness as a
child, she had me stand in front of the mirror
and say, ‘You can, you will, you must,’
night after night. Then, too, she has told me
that the big thing when I was a baby was not
to pick me up if I cried. Perhaps this had an
effect on me. Perhaps I didn’t have a normal
feeling of love, and so I learned to be on my
own—and not to fear being a loner.

“More than that, I saw what happened to
my father when I was growing up. I’m almost
embarrassed to talk about this, because I don’t
want people to read a lot of awful meanings
into it. I love my parents very much, and I
don’t want to hurt them. They come out to
California to stay with me, and I visit them
often in Chicago.

“But when I was a schoolgirl, | remember
how lonesome my mother was for her mother.
My sister and I went to school, my dad went
to work, and she was alone most of the day.
We're of Czech descent, and Czechs usually
have close-knit families. Well, my mother
bickered with my dad about moving to my
Grandmother Kral’s on Springfield Avenue.
Finally, after a lot of pleading and haranguing,
he gave in. I'll never forget how my mother
changed after we moved in with my grand-
mother. She was happier, yes. And she was a
lot more positive about what she wanted. She
and my grandmother ruled the house.

“Not that my mother or grandmother was
nasty or unpleasant. Far from it. But they had
set ideas on things, and when they lined up
against my father, poor dad couldn’t get a
word in edgewise.

“That’s when I began to realize how hard a
marriage can be on people. My mother needed
the comfort of her mother—which made my
father uncomfortable. Not that he ever raised
his voice, or anything like that. But I could see
that gradually his authority was being stripped
away, and I wanted to shake him and say
to him, ‘Don’t be afraid to tell them what
you think.’”

The argument Kim remembers best oc-
curred when her father, a transit clerk with the
Milwaukee Railroad, wanted to returnto a
teaching job in Oregon.

“My mother wouldn’t hear of it. How could
he expect her to leave her mother, now that
her mother was older and needed her more
than ever? Dad has always been a lover of the
outdoors, and he said he was tired of Chicago
and the soot and his work with the railroad.
His dream was a small ranch of his own in the
Northwest, with a herd of cattle. Mother cried
every day, dad argued. Finally, dad gave in. I
could see he was crushed.

“Even if my mother had been willing to
move to Oregon, Grandmother Kral would
have raised Cain. She wanted her loved ones
near her. And of course my sister and I wanted
to stay in Chicago, so we added fuel to the fire.
If and when I marry, I want my husband to
have my father’s kindness and understanding,
but I’m terrified of dominating him. I don’t
want to be the boss, and I’m afraid that I
would be.”’

Kim’s most recent retreat from marriage has
been with the a.rector Richard Quine. She
says, “We’ve come within a hair line of it, but
something has always made me turn back. I
love Dick very much, but I’m afraid we don’t
love each other enough. Why is it that we fall
in love with people for what they are, and then,
after we know them, want to change them ?sIf
it isn’t the way he walks, then it’s because he
wears a corny necktie. Who’s to say what’s
right? I’m as guilty of this as anyone, always
judging and picking on superficial things, until
I decided that there had to be a big test, a final
exam, before marriage, one that wasn’t child-
ish. And one night, when I was reading, I came
upon it. It’s a poem, a sonnet by Shakespeare
that goes:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove :
O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never
shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his
height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips
and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass
come ;
Love alters not with his brief hours and
weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

“LT apply this to every man I’m serious about.
Dick came closest to passing, but it didn’t
work out because he’s immersed in his work.
When I finish a movie, I want to get away from

TO HELP YOU
SHOP
THE JOURNAL

Each month Journal editors compile a
“Reader Service Shopping Guide” filled
with shopping information about the
products you see featured in each issue.
The guide tells who makes the prod-
ucts, the approximate cost, and where
you can buy the same or similar mer-
chandise.

If you would like a copy of the
SHOPPING GUIDE, or for shopping infor-
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MISS JUDY WATERS

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL
1270 AVE. OF THE AMERICAS
NEW YORK 20, N.Y.

the movie business. Dick can’t; he’s too
tied up in his work. He has to be very social,
and he likes routine. Cocktails at six, dinner at
eight. I like to live free. I don’t want marriage
to tie me down. I want it to lift me up. For two
years I’ve debated with myself: should I or
shouldn’t I be Kim Quine? And when I started
making apologies for this or that, I knew we
had problems to iron out, to ‘adjust’ to. How I
hate that word ‘adjust.’ It means people having
to give up their own thoughts. If a marriage
needs constant adjusting to, then it’s not a
happy marriage in my eyes. If I let go an inch
now, what will it be like as I keep giving in? A
nightmare. Why shouldn’t a man know me as
I really am?

“Many of my old Chicago friends went into
marriage too quickly, and now I hear them
moan and groan about their woes. There’s
nothing worse than a nagging woman. And the
children suffer so. Isn’t it better to have happy

i
LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

children, even if you don’t have them while
you're young, than to have children who aren’t
the products of a deep, abiding love?

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that
marriage isn’t for everybody right away. Times
have changed, and a woman has a freer
choice. She’s not as dependent on a man as she
once was. And yet, every woman dreams of
love and being loved. Maybe Ill find it, maybe
I won’t. But I won’t compromise. 4

“My sister, Arlene, and her husband, Bill,
who’s a telephone lineman, give me hope.
They’ve achieved harmony. From the start,
Arlene was able to tell Bill he was the boss,
that he’d make all the important decisions. She
believes in him so much that she’s willing to
live through his mistakes.

“ a

Birs worst problem is his extravagance.
It’s only natural to want some of the comforts
older people have, and Bill, who has three
children with Arlene, decided to buy another |
car. When Arlene called to tell me Bill was
buying another car, I wanted to yell, ‘You
can’t let him do it!’ Arlene had told me about!
their hospital bills. How could he possibly:
conceive of buying a new car? Arlene didn’t!
say a word to him. She told him whatever de-
cision he made she’d stick by it. And Bill
finally couldn’t bring himself to buying that
car because he realized he’d wreck the family
budget.

“T doubt if I could ever have Arlene’s pa-
tience, but it’s certainly something to work to-:
ward. Bill has such respect for Arlene because
she believes in him totally. He thinks twice}.
now about an extravagance. He realizes it’s
just not himself that would suffer; his whole
family would. Arlene’s not changing him so
much as she’s making him aware of his re=!
sponsibility, and this is what I found so won-'
derful—the way they’re growing and getting
along. I envy their happiness.”

Is Kim worried about being called a spinster
or an old maid?

“No. I don’t sit at home with my hands;
folded in my lap, afraid of meeting people,
afraid of loving. I think of myself as a bach-|
elor girl who’s not afraid of men. I’m not
afraid of living, or of giving love.”

And yet Kim’s manager, Norman Kessel.
who takes care of all her business affairs and}
investments, points out, “Kim is so involved”
with moviemaking, painting, designing clothes,
furnishing the hideaway house she bought in
Carmel, reading every word in every contract}
she signs, that I don’t see how she’li ever have
time for marriage. Her biggest problem with
men is that she overanalyzes everything
Whether to dress up or not for a date can be a}
crisis. I don’t think she’s ready yet for mar
riage. Will she ever be? It’s hard to say. She
has so much on her mind that I know she’s
never bored a moment.”

Kim recently purchased the house in Carme:
from a man who built it as a dream house
miles from anyone. She bid on it the first da
she saw it, when she was on location for The
Notorious Landlady, and she signed the dee
the following day. Set high on the side of ¢
cliff, in the foggy Carmel highlands, it faces the
ocean, which she calls “my inspiration.’

windows. The house, a tall, turreted tower}
looks like part of the rocky cliff.
“It needs no care,” Kim says. “There art}
yellow wild flowers in the spring and lavendej
blossoms in the summer. They grow wild an
free. Seals come out on the rocks below the
house, and some mornings I’ve seen whales}
There’s a natural pool below, where I car
bathe in the nude. And my bathroom has
walls—just windows facing the ocean. To ge
into a negligee or pajamas and go out and si)
on the rocks at twilight is the most wonderfu}
thing I know. I watch the waves lash at thi
miniature palms growing between the rocks)
and I’m amazed they aren’t washed away. Bi
the palms bend just so much, enough to giv)
with the wave—and yet hold root: That’s wha}
I must learn to do. In the evening I watch th
sea gulls swoop, and I believe they have the ke!
the secret of living. Last Christmas I designed) _
a coffee table out of mosaics for my sister ani}
her husband. The center is a sea gull wit
open wings—in his bill he holds a gold key 0}
a chain. All my life I’ve loved sea gulls. The
know how to be free.” EN.

AY, 1962

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116

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TELL ME, DOCTOR
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 35

before I see her. In addition to the usual ones,
we will want a sedimentation rate. If the urine
specimen is satisfactory, have the frog test
started. And, Mary Ann, please take her tem-
perature at once.”

Two days later, when the tests were all in,
Mrs. Whitaker was back in the doctor’s office.
She was given a second careful pelvic exami-
nation. Then the doctor was ready to report.

‘“‘Mrs. Whitaker, the tests and examinations
pretty well dispose of the possibility that your
troubles are due either to a pregnancy in the
tube or to appendicitis. I find no evidence of
endometriosis. I can’t rule out entirely the cyst
that Dr. Gross spoke of. However, I would be
willing to wager five to one that you have a
mild infection—‘low-grade’ or ‘subacute,’ as
we doctors say—in the region of your right
tube and ovary, probably as a result of the
spontaneous abortion.”

The color drained from Mrs. Whitaker’s
face. “I remember now—Dr. Gross did say
something about a subacute infection dnd he
gave me penicillin twice. But it didn’t mean
anything to me then. Is it a pelvic infection,
the kind my mother had?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Whitaker. If the trouble is
pelvic infection, it is definitely caused by some
type of bacterium much milder than the hemo-
lytic streptococcus. As a matter of fact, we
seldom see that any more, except in practice
in underprivileged sections, or where asepsis
has been lamentably faulty. I would guess that
your trouble is due either to a streptococcus of

WHICH ARE EASIER
TO RAISE,
BOYS OR GIRLS?

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 59

than girls; it’s because the small muscles of their
eyes and hands needed for good co-ordination
in these skills develop at a much slower rate. At
the same time, a boy’s emotions and explosive
energies are under far less stable control. In
physical and emotional and mental maturity,
boys are from one to two years behind girls
and they do not catch up until senior-high
school.

“When we have a discipline problem in
grade school, nine times out of ten it’s a boy,”
says an elementary-school principal with thirty
years’ experience. “If a girl misbehaves, it’s
much more serious and harder to handle be-
cause most parents refuse to admit their little
girl could be a problem.”

Boys far outnumber gir!s in reading prob-
lems and stuttering, and many more get taken
to clinics for help in emotional problems. If a
boy happens to be left-handed, much more
fuss is made over it.

Grade-school girls gravitate more gracefully
than boys toward organized activities, like
Sunday school, according to parents ques-
tioned by the Journal. Girls are more likely to
show up for a dancing or music or riding les-
son for which the parent has already paid.
They put more effort into schoolwork, mem-
orize more easily, and show more interest in
all kinds of learning than boys.

Says Margaret Mead, author of Male and
Female, “Girls are more verbal than boys,
communicate more readily and are more anx-
ious to please. They pass out the pencils in
class and bring flowers to the teacher, who is,
of course, herself a woman. All through an
American boy’s childhood he has to compete
at home and at school with girls who have an
edge in almost all activities for which a reward
is given. Sports remain almost the only field
where female competition is barred and there-
fore provide through life a thrilling escape for
American boys and men, if only in the pages
of a newspaper.”

Says New York lawyer Morris L. Ernst,
“The lack of curiosity and adventure in young
men today comes from adults’ laughing at
their incorrect answers as children, little
knowing that the leap of the mind is more im-
portant than the correctness of the answer.”

When it comes to clothes Dina Merrill be-
lieves, “Little boys are less difficult to dress. It

the anaerobic type, called that because it flour-
ishes best without air, or to the common colon
bacillus. If it were the hemolytic, you would
have been much sicker long before this.”

“You say, though, that it might be an ovar-
ian cyst. Can’t you operate and find out for
sure?”

‘That’s where the problem comes in, in a
pelvic situation following abortion or miscar-
riage or normal childbirth,’’ the doctor told
her. “If there is a twisted or infected cyst, or
an infected appendix, it should ordinarily be
removed. But if your trouble is the usual type
of infection after a spontaneous abortion, to
operate at this point would be a serious mis-
take. Surgery might spread the infection,
make things worse.”

“But Doctor,” Mrs. Whitaker said agi-
tatedly, “the other day you spoke about the
women who are made sterile by pelvic infec-
tions. I was my mother’s first child. After the
infection she had following my birth, she
never became pregnant again. I haven’t even
one child! I couldn’t bear it if I should be left
sterile too!”

“Conditions were very different twenty-five
years ago,”’ the doctor explained reassuringly.
“We didn’t have antibiotics then, or sulfas, to
clear up the infection quickly before it could
seal off the tubes. It’s true that pelvic infec-
tions remain a prime cause of infertility in
women. But in the cases I spoke of the other
day—aside from criminal abortions, that is—
usually sufficient attention has not been paid
to the uncomfortable symptoms. And we have
ways today of dealing with closed tubes, if
thev have not been too badly damaged.

takes me twice as long to outfit our daughter
for school as it does to outfit both our boys.
But a girl’s clothes last longer.”

Maj. Robert M. White, a parent and test
pilot who flies the Air Force X-15 at speeds
exceeding 3000 mph, writes, “Little girls are
more expensive to dress. Pretty dresses cost
more than T shirts and blue jeans!”

A mother of nine, the wife of the governor of
New Jersey, Mrs. Richard J. Hughes, says,
“Girls’ nylon socks can be rinsed in a wash-
basin, but boys’ white tennis socks must be
aired, washed, bleached, boiled, fumigated
and mended. If you are lucky, they only shrink
and turn yellow and chances are they will be
good for another whole week.”

According to the Journal survey, one in
every two grade-schoolers heips willingly
around the house, boys and girls being equally
co-operative. Says Pres. Millicent McIntosh of
Barnard College, ‘““Boys and girls are condi-
tioned into certain fixed attitudes by their
parents. For instance, girls are supposed to
help with the dishes, but boys are excused.
Girls must pick up their clothes while boys
are allowed to scatter theirs. American moth-
ers are anxious to wait on their sons and this
creates difficulties later in the son’s marriage,
since a man usually expects his wife to repeat
the same emotional pattern as his mother.
College women don’t worship their sons as
much, I’m glad to say, and are helping to
change this sentimental Old World picture of
the waited-on male and imposed-upon female.”

Most parents agree that boys’ hobbies are
more intrusive than girls’ collections and
dolls: the tangle of electric-train tracks in the
living room, the rabbits and mice that multi-
ply, the tamed groundhog that bites, the do-
mesticated crow that pecks the slumberer in
the hammock, the boa constrictor that escapes
the third-floor bathroom.

Says Mrs. Richard J. Hughes “Girls gradu-
ate from dolls which can perch in a chair to
lipsticks which can fit in a purse. Even hair
curlers do not take up nearly the space of a
fifteen-foot canoe, a tent, football helmets,
caps, gloves, bats—wait a minute now, those
bats do come in handy.”

Comments actor Robert Young, father of
five daughters, “Boys are apt to come home
with snakes and frogs in their pockets. But if
you have only girls, your house is full of boys
anyway, so you don’t miss anything.”

Boys are more apt to fall out of trees, break
their second teeth in bike spills, and crack
their skulls in football. They crawl into dan-
gerous caves and climb telephone poles, swim

LADIES’ HOME JOURN
“Let’s try a conservative treatment first— lg
lots of rest, a simple, bland diet and a cours
ofantibiotics that should cure, notjust make th
condition go underground. We can always op
erate if that doesn’t do the trick. After th
infection has abated—‘cooled off,’ as we dog
tors say—we can use surgery more helpfull
and safely, if we have to. But many wome
have been cured of pelvic infections by
course I am prescribing for you.’

“Well, Doctor, if you will promise that
can have babies ——”’

““No doctor can promise such a thing ;
that. One never knows what unforeseen thi
may happen. But after the inflamed area
cooled off completely, we'll insufflate your)”
tubes—blow air through them. That will
us whether the tubes are open. Sometimes thi
test for patency, as we call it, in itself opefis)
tubes that have had a tendency to close. If it
doesn’t, we have other techniques to fall bacel
on. There has been much progress along thos
lines, too, in the last twenty-five years.

“You have your mother’s strong, health
constitution. Your abortion was spontaneo
not induced. You sought medical help ea
And you have the benefit of twenty-five yea
of progress in the treatment of pelvic condi-#"
tions, over what was available when you were!”
born.

“I am willing to make a prediction in your
case, Mrs. Whitaker, if you follow direction ds
faithfully. It is that you will probably give you ir)
mother enough grandbabies to make up fe or me
the babies she didn’t get to have.”

Next month Dr. Schauffler discusses postnatal care of.

mother and child. mt ¢

BK
— } ie
ee
in waves too rough and dive into water too its
shallow and are accordingly suffocated, elec-) (or
trocuted and drowned at a rate exceeding tha
of girls at all ages. Between the ages of ten the
and fourteen, half of all deaths among boys)
are caused by accidents. Boys miss mo
days of school from injuries and break mor
bones.
“It seems to me that girls are easier to)
raise,’ comments Kathryn Murray, mother 0
twin girls. “Even looking at a girl is mo
refreshing. Yet, from my bystander role
grandmother, I would rather have a few
each to raise. Unmanageable, exasperati
noisy, unpredictable and irritating—boys a
certainly a more exciting challenge.” ;
Victor Borge writes that he “enjoys with#
equal pride”’ his five children. “‘I admit, how-
ever,” he adds, “certain difficulties in groom-#ia\
ing a girl for the presidency of the Unite
States.” Hb
Margaret Mead says, “I think whether boys
or girls are easier to raise depends on the
temperament of the mother. Some women,
enjoy raising sons and do a good job of it;
others do better with daughters.”
Mrs. John B. Kelly of Philadelphia writes,
“T found my son somewhat easier to raise than
my three daughters. He was mild, good-
natured and greatly interested in athletics. He
was always in training, so he never smoked,
drank or kept late hours. My anxious mo-
ments for him were very few.” i
Sigmund Freud believed, “The only thing
that brings a mother undiluted satisfaction is
her relation to a son; it is quite the most com-
plete relationship between human beings, ant
the one that is the most free of ambivalence.”
Most parents are finding today that a
less of whether teenage problems are milder
or more acute than they were a generation ago,
they definitely start earlier. In some parts 0}
the country, girls are wearing cosmetics and
brassiéres and dating at ten and eleven.

creased teenage smoking helped the tobace
industry bounce back from the cancer scare,
and teenage spending is now an important |
part of our national economy. Half of th
country’s high-school students have had so
going-steady experience; and the median
for brides marrying for the first time is now
19.9 years. |

“These are apocalyptic times,” comments
Ashley Montagu. “Young people want to
marry as young as they can and have babies
as rapidly as possible.”

“Going steady leads to a decreasing amount
of friendship within each sex,’’ Dr. Mead wrote

}
JAY, 1962

Ir the recent White House Conference on
louth. “For a young boy, the male friend who
ared one’s identity struggles is replaced by a
rl, some two years more mature, with an unde-
sloped individuality, who is single-mindedly
ying to promote one goal only: an early
jarriage having any sort of economic base
Jat will support life. Where these marriages
Je successful, it seems to be through the per-
Janent acceptance by the husband of domes-
: goals as primary goals, with his career and
‘ /rsonal interests subordinated to the demands
a house and children.”
iG must be the parents who are pushing
lis early dating because it happens i in clumps,
certain neighborhoods,’”’ comments Robert
jvul Smith, father of two boys and author of
vhere Did You Go? Out. What Did You Do?
lthing. “T keep picturing some thirteen-year-
A girl with braces on her teeth sitting by the
hone Saturday night waiting for it to ring. It
ust be agonizing for her. It always was—only
pe she agonizes earlier. It must be some new
jad of evolutionary process. I'll tell you one
jing, though: 1 don’t intend to subsidize my
ids’ marriages.”
) American parents’ willingness to subsidize
jeir offspring to the age of twenty-five and
syond has been interpreted as another exam-
‘of the current permissive trend. One of the
Jost striking trends in America today is the
sappearance of the parent who says no and
Icks to it. The Journal survey of parents
‘owed that 85 percent of them were by their
a admission frankly permissive; only 15
»rcent rated themselves as “strict” and these
ere equally divided between mothers and
‘thers.
There is a feeling today that the meekness,
landness and apathy of teenagers reflect
ult attitudes.
; Comments Edgar Friedenberg, in his book
je Vanishing Adolescent, “(Increasingly rare
| the true adolescent . the knight in
‘ining chino pants, one who retains his ardor
\d authenticity.
)*Adolescent boys are capable of piercing
wensity,”” wrote teacher Friedenberg, who
ids boys on the whole moodier, more intense
d more mystical than girls. He also feels that
igh- school boys are more vain than girls.
Vheir vanity is very personal. A well-built,
in-bronzed boy will fight like a tiger to keep
) mother from getting him out of his torn T
jirt and Ivy League pants into a conservative
jit designed to conceal his fearful sym-
etry. .
“Girls, I believe, are likely to find admira-
pn for their beauty stimulating; they become
jpre alert. Boys seem to become less alert;
2y bask in physical regard like alligators on

a log. It seems to reassure them, and they get
sleepy.”

Boys get into more kinds of trouble during
high school than girls. They are more often
the chronic “‘underachievers” whose output
does not match their IQ potential. According
to the results of college-board exams, boys
and girls are equal in intellectual capacity, but
boys test better in math and mechanical abil-
ity, and girls test better in English and lan-
guages. “This is because in high school we
start rewarding the boys who are good in
math, and punishing the girls,’ believes
Margaret Mead.

Twice as many boys as girls drop out of high
school, and 85 percent of those who leave do
so for voluntary reasons, such as boredom,
disinterest in schoolwork or a desire for inde-
pendence. Unless they return to high school
later and earn their diploma, this decision af-
fects to a radical degree their lifetime earning
capacity.

When it comes to breaking the law, boys are
the ones who are pilfering in stores, stealing
cars, experimenting with narcotics and alco-
hol, knifing and killing. Suicide rates are also
much higher for boys than girls. Says Judge
Mary C. Kohler, “From the point of view of
the bench, girls’ problems are all sex. How-
ever, marriage is a girl’s main objective, even a
delinquent girl, and when she achieves this she
generally settles down quite readily to raising a
family. With a boy, the transition to adult-
hood is far more tumultuous and his goals in
life far less easily achieved.”

Both fathers and mothers questioned by
the Journal found the problem of exacting
obedience and respect from their sons the most
troublesome of all. The next greatest source of
conflict was getting their sons interested in
schoolwork. “Making him realize the impor-
tance of good grades to prepare for college
and his future,” or “pouring him into any
kind of conforming mold,” bothered many
parents.

Ethel Kennedy, the petite and peppy wife of
Attorney General Robert Kennedy, has seven
lively youngsters. She also has a favorite story
about one of her in-laws that sums up, for her,
the difference between boys and girls at this
age.

““Once Teddy [Edward Kennedy] was climb-
ing the Matterhorn and got stuck. He clung to
the side of the mountain, looking down thou-
sands of feet. An annoyed guide came to the
rescue. ‘Why can’t you boys be like the girls?”
he scolded. “When you tell a girl to move her
right foot down, she moves it down. When you
tell her to move her left hand up, she moves it
up. But a boy! He hears you, thinks it over,

“lm not really so wonderful, Doris—just
in comparison with everybody else.”

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and then does what he thinks is the thing to
do.’”’

Five times as many fathers objected to their
sons’ going steady as the mothers. ‘Fathers
today are living more and more through their
sons,”’ believes Margaret Mead. “They are
men who have reached a plateau in their ca-
reers and feel they won’t go any higher. They
want to taste success vicariously, through their
sons’ successes. This is why Little Leagues are
often so viciously competitive. Fathers are also
identifying with their sons when they start
dating. Fathers of teenage sons today are
products of the depression and the grim years
of World War Il. . . . They see their young
sons with cars, money, lovely young girls. . .
living it up... . Father wishes he could have a
good time too.”

Actor Jackie Cooper touched on this point
when he observed to the Journal, “Boys are
harder to raise than girls because fathers see a
lot of themselves in their son and the son is
trying to be so much like father that there is a
sense of competition.”

As for mothers and daughters, Margaret
Mead says, “‘Conflict sometimes occurs when
the mother starts her menopause when the
young daughter reaches her menarche. When
both may be suffering from emotional stress
at the same time, mother resents getting old
just as daughter is blossoming.”

Mr. Friedenberg explains in The Vanishing
Adolescent, “Part of the American dream is
to live long and die young. Young people,
who really do have their lives ahead of them,
are bound to arouse mixed feelings in their
elders. They arouse genuine concern; it is
excruciating to watch a youngster, especially
one who refuses to listen to you, making what
you are quite sure are serious mistakes. But at
a deeper level, it may be even more painful
when he does not make them; when he grasps
and holds what eluded you, or what you dared
not touch and have dreamed of ever since.”

Boys’ greater emotional instability contrib-
utes to their tragic toll of auto deaths, which is
higher for boys than for girls at all ages. Three
times as many sixteen-year-old boys have car
licenses as girls, and boys pile up more
mileage, drive more at night and show more
disregard for safety rules than girls. A teenage
boy has better muscle co-ordination than his
father; he reacts faster, sees better at night and
suffers less from headlight glare. However,
lacking experience and judgment, he miscalcu-
lates distances, traffic hazards and poor road
conditions, and so cracks up more often and
more fatally than older persons. At the age of
twenty-one, six times as many young men as
young women are killed by motor vehicles.

Comments actor Robert Young on boy-girl
problems in Hollywood, “I’ve talked to par-
ents who have both, and the consensus is that
girls are easier to raise because boys evidence
independence earlier. Girls are more apt to
stay home until they get older. But then the
problems begin to come, because teenage girls
are more vulnerable. Vulnerable to what?
Well, to boys.”

Nie dating habits of teenage daughters are
the No. | source of conflict with parents in the
Journal survey, even more worrisome, appar-
ently, to fathers than to mothers. Parents had
twice as many disagreements with daughters
over going steady than with their sons. The
next source of conflict was clothes. Few par-
ents objected to their daughters’ choice of
clothes; it was the matter of expense, “‘an in-
cessant demand for new clothes.”

Parents worried about their daughters’ mor-
als. Toughest problem in ising a girl, one
mother wrote, was “giving her any kind of
moral stamina or standards in the face of
competition from television, ‘sexpot’ movies,
almost all new novels, and apparent public
acceptance of the very things a conscientious
parent would attempt to avoid. And though I
sound like a prude, I’m not!’ Many parents
bemoaned the difficulty of keeping daughters
“from growing up too fast, too soon.”

According to the Journal survey, girls were
twice as demanding about clothes and allow-
ances as boys; they were, however, much more
likely to work to the best of their ability in
school and more willingly attended family af-
fairs. Girls squabbled more at home with their
brothers and sisters than boys did

Half of the parents interviewed felt that
they had given their high-school children an
adequate sex education. Mothers felt a little
surer of this than fathers. About one in ten
parents had never discussed sex with their
children. Two thirds of the parents thought
sex education should be given in junior-high
school, and 15 percent in grade school. Only 3
percent thought that schools should never
teach the facts of life.

The unwed mother today does not suffer as
much social stigma as she did twenty-five
years ago, according to two thirds of the par-
ents interviewed by the Journal. Those parents
with three or more children felt the least de-
gree of social stigma. ““Young people accept
this very freely,” commented one mother.
Among families of manual workers, however,
only half of them felt that the unwed mother
was more socially acceptable today than a gen-
eration ago.

“The teenage girl today is still typically the
much more conservative partner and the
guardian of sexual limits,” says Dr. Ira Reiss
in a recent issue of the Annals of The American
Academy of Political and Social Sciences.
“Girls who are devout in their religion are
much more conservative in their sexual be-
havior. Religion is not as strong a factor with
boys and does not control their behavior as
much. . . . Teenage sexual codes reflect our
more liberal adult sexual codes. Our culture
looks much more favorably upon sexual be-
havior when it occurs in such a stable, affec-
tionate context as going steady affords.”

Boys who go on to college are much less
likely to marry their high-school steadies than

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boys who complete their education at the
twelfth grade. In college boys generally sur-
pass girls for the first time in superior scho-
lastic performance, and they continue to do so
through graduate school. Girls become less
brilliant scholastically as their thoughts turn
more and more to marriage. Today, for every
100 young American women who start col-
lege, only 40 finish, whereas 60 of every 100
young men do.

Some experts feel that as young boys and
girls are maturing at a more rapid rate, the
years between ten and eighteen should now be
considered the teen years. Getting into college
is such a rigorous process, and college itself is
so serious, with such stringent standards, that
freshmen of eighteen are now considered full-
blown adults. High-spirited acts of nonsense
once expected of rah-rah undergraduates are
now often cause for expulsion from our over-
crowded colleges.

This is particularly true of Ivy League cen-
ters of learning. The gentleman’s C is no longer
regarded favorably. Explains Dean John Alex-
ander of Stockton College, “When a boy is
not producing as he should. because of some
disciplinary or emotional problem, he is put
on a year’s probation. If he wishes to come
back he may, provided his marks improve.
Parents worry that their sons will not return,
but nine out of ten do.’ Moreover, 80 percent
of Stockton’s undergraduates go on to grad-
uate work.

The ultimate goal in raising children is, after
all, to prepare them for a healthy and satisfy-
ing adulthood. Says English-born Ashley
Montagu, “In America we make the ghastly
mistake of educating girls exactly like boys.
No one teaches girls that their qualities are
marvelous when complementary to men’s and
ghastly when in competition.”

Believes Pres. Millicent McIntosh of Bar-
nard College, ““The competition between men
and women has nothing to do with education.
It’s a matter of personality and temperament.
If an aggressive woman happens to be well
educated, people blame her education.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

“Today’s young college couples are muck
better educated and better prepared to deal witk
a complex world than we were. Although many
of them live in virtual poverty, they are friendly,
relaxed, gay, and their children are bette
disciplined than ours were.” She feels, how:
ever, that all young brides should be urged te
keep up some kind of outside work, either
paid or voluntary, while their children are
small. “‘This is insurance against that possible
period of depression and letdown many ¢
young mother comes to feel. If she has with:
drawn from the working world completely.
psychologically it is very difficult for her te
return.”

The most admired woman college graduate
today, according to Pres. Thomas C. Mendep,
hall of Smith College, is “a community:
minded mother who can join in the conversa-!
tion, assist charities, get things done and raisé
children at the same time that she is a good!
hostess.” Although he does not object to thi
“paragon,” President Mendenhall pleads with
his undergraduates, “A// of you don’t have te
conform to this type!”” He goes on to say thai
loneliness and pain are essential to growth,
“despite the prevailing attempt to make loneli.
ness seem unnatural and almost un-American.”
Ashley Montagu has words of advice i
raising sons. “In America, there is a taboo
against gentleness in the male. He must be

tough, aggressive and never cry. A boy is sel-f:

dom taught to enjoy a sport for the game’s
sake, but only to win. As long as we go 0
worshiping success, the world will continue te
get into a sorrier and sorrier mess. A mothe
could start changing the world by teaching her!
young son to be kind and humane and not te
be ashamed to cry. Later on in life, the woman)
who bursts into tears will live years longer than
the dry-eyed male who under similar circum-
stances internalizes his tears into ulcers, hyper-
tension and heart trouble ”

Which are harder to raise, boys or girls?
The Journal survey of parents was split right
down the middle on this question. Professional-
class families tended to think that boys were!
a little harder to raise, reflecting perhaps the
difficulty and expense of giving a boy a good
education today. Parents over forty-five, re-
gardless of their education or profession, also)
thought that boys were a bit more worrisome.j

The experience of living through the first
child’s adolescence appears to be the most
traumatic. The Journal’s survey showed that
parents with only one child fretted the most.
With each additional child in the family (up t
three and more) parenthood seemed to offer
more over-all satisfactions. When asked if the!
joys of parenthood outweighed its trials, nine
out of ten parents answered a positive ““Yes.”.

Joan Crawford says, “You can’t raise any)
child without a sense of humor’’—a senti-'
ment with which Will Stanton would surely
agree.

Says Mr. Stanton:

“In a given week the average girl will lose
four things. The average boy will find nine
things and hide them in the freezer.

“Girls are easier on clothes—possibly be-
cause dresses don’t have knees—and their
playthings are less painful to step on in the
dark—except for jacks.

“‘Boys tend to leave more crayons around—
girls are more adept at grinding them into the
rug. 7

“Girls are reformers. They are constantly
trying to improve the characters of ones
‘Just because I kicked him first doesn’t mean)
he has to kick me.’ There is a lesson for all
of us.

“Girls lie more convincingly, but boys learn
to steal at an earlier age. .

“Boys ask the most embarrassing questions,
but girls ask them in a more carrying voice.

**A small boy can be taken into either type
of public rest room. A man with a small
daughter has a problem for which there is no
dignified solution.”

There is only one point of agreement among
parents which has persisted throughout the
ages. As Mrs. Richard J. Hughes points out,
“Any mother with growing sons must be
ready to face up, sooner or later, to the truth
of the old adage: ‘A son is a son till he take a
wife, but a daughter’s a daughter for all of her
lifes?” END

062
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UNM, 1962

| OVELY WAY TO ENTERTAIN

) TINUED FROM PAGE 68

sheesecloth, and the onion. Cover with
) ing water and bring again to a boil. Lower
it and simmer 4-5 minutes, until shrimp
) pink. Cool to lukewarm in broth. Drain.
Ice warm shrimp in bowl and add water
stnuts. salt, dressing and dill. Mix well and
1 for several hours. Wash romaine and
sley. Separate romaine leaves, drain and
1. To serve, slice tomatoes and mushrooms.
nto use 2 slices tomato and | mushroom,
isd, per person. To assemble salad, arrange
yaine leaves with clusters of parsley on large
Mer or individual salad plates. Place shrimp
lomaine leaves and garnish platter or plates
1 tomato slices topped with a few mush-
im slices and sprinkled with a little addi-
nal dressing. Arrange rosemary eggs on
‘ter also, and pass pumpernickel melbas.
kes 6 to 8 servings (142 calories per serving).

i PUMPERNICKEL MELBAS

Dbund pumpernickel, unsliced
ted butter

‘pe the pumpernickel carefully into paper-
1 slices—so thin that you can see through
. Cut the larger slices in half. Brush each
ce generously with melted butter and place
@}a baking sheet. Broil both sides until
‘@den. Then place in a slow oven, about
ung)? F., for a few minutes until they dry out and
wi ome crisp. Serve warm. You will need only
(uut 14 of the loaf, so use remaining bread
wl sandwiches or morning toast.

MENU 2

Mushroom Consommé
Sesame Wafers
*Festive Chicken-and-Fruit Salad
*Ham-and-Paté Roll-Ups
ci Popovers
_,ileapple Sherbet—Tiny Unfrosted Coconut
: Cakes

. #PSTIVE CHICKEN-AND-FRUIT SALAD

5-/b.) roasting 2 tablespoons finely
‘ phicken minced onion

icup diced celery / tablespoon lemon

up seedless white juice

rapes, halved V6 teaspoon salt

up mandarin- V4 teaspoon pepper
range sections, V4 teaspoon packaged
Ndrained herb salad-dressing
lcup mayonnaise mix

® cup commercial Lettuce

pour cream \4 cup toasted slivered
imablespoons finely almonds (garnish)

Q propped parsley Watercress (garnish)

fam the chicken until tender, and be careful
it to let it boil. Cool, remove skin. Take meat
~ bm bones and cut into fairy darge bite-sized
sces, Place in a bowl and add celery, grapes
\ dorange sections. Chill while you prepare the
essing. Mix togethermayonnaise, sour cream,
Jrsley, onion, lemon juice and seasonings.

Pour over chickenand fruit and mix well. Cover
and chillseveral hours to let flavors blend. Wash
lettuce, drain and separate into cups. Chill. To
serve, arrange salad in lettuce cups on a large
platter. Sprinkle salad with almonds. Garnish
platter with sprigs of watercress and clusters of
additional grapes and mandarin-orange sec-
tions. Makes 6 servings.

HAM-AND-PATE ROLL-UPS
1 chicken liver
1 tablespoon butter
1 package (3-0z.)
cream cheese
14 teaspoon salt

Dash pepper
14 teaspoon Worcester-
shire sauce
6-8 thin slices
Virginia-type ham

Sauté the chicken liver in the butter a few min-
utes, until golden on both sides (use the liver
saved from the chicken cooked for the chicken
salad). Cool and mash with fork, or chop
finely. Soften the cream cheese and add the
chopped liver, salt, pepper and Worcestershire
sauce. Mix well until mixture is very creamy.
Spread a thin layer on each slice of ham, then
roll up. Cut each roll in half. Secure with
toothpicks if necessary. Chill and pass with
chicken salad. Makes 6 servings.

MENU 3

Cream-of-Chicken Soup with Lemon
Barbecued Potato Chips
*Chef’s Tongue-and-Veal Salad
Corn Sticks
Coffee Mousse
Sugar Cookies

CHEF’S TONGUE-AND-VEAL SALAD

1 pound cooked tongue
cut into strips

14 teaspoon nutmeg
1 tablespoon capers
1 pound cooked veal _—_‘\% teaspoon salt
cut into strips Vg teaspoon pepper
2 canned green chilies, 3 cup red wine vinegar
chopped 24 cup olive oil
1 small clove garlic, 1 box (1 pint)
peeled and minced cherry tomatoes
1 scallion, sliced 2 quarts prepared
V6 cup finely chopped salad greens
parsley 2 onions, peeled and
| teaspoon orégano thinly sliced

Place prepared tongue and veal in a bowl. Ina
jar, mix together chilies, garlic, scallion,
parsley, orégano, nutmeg, capers, salt, pepper,
vinegar and oil. Shake well, measure 14 cup
and pour over the meat. Wash tomatoes and
slice in half. Add to meat mixture and mix well.
Cover and chill for several hours, turning mix-
ture occasionally. Use any combination of
your favorite greens. When ready to serve,
arrange alternate layers of mixed greens, the
meat-and-tomato mixture with some of the
dressing and a few onion rings. Arrange the
final layer of meat and tomatoes in spoke
fashion, placing some of the tomato halves in
the center and groups of tongue and veal cir-
cling them, and onion rings here and there.
Pass remaining dressing, if desired, or re-
frigerate to use when needed another time.
Makes 6-8 servings. END

SMALL BOY’S BATH

By GROVE BECKER

Mother shakes the jeans full of the shore
with parlor-righteous fury, plucks off a ramble-sticky pair
of socks, unpeels a shirt of adventure motley,

shudders at the truth laid bare.

My explorer son, tinting the tub,
trembles under her fanatic smoking flood
of rage against his friendly mud.

Now salt scent in his curls and bank balsam
dies, now comradeship on his palm of spaniel pelt and paw.
O suds-lasher, pray he'll never carry

She cracks doom against elbows’
green remembrance of hot grass by the sea,
scours earth-allegiance from his knee.

She strips the last token

from his shoulder glistening by blue tile. But her holy war
is lost to stains indelible in his spirit
printed in the patterns of the shore.

WHAT'S THE NEXT
BEST THING TO

In a child’s world, is any-
thing ever a close second
to his mother’s and fa-
ther’s love? Of course not.

Yet too often, we act as
if there were.

“Honey,” we'll tell our
husbands, ‘‘all the third
graders are taking piano
lessons.”’ Or ballet. Or
French. There’s no limit
to our yearning for the
better things. The “‘advan-
tages.’ > And it rarely oc-
curs to us that the strain
of providing them may be
wearing down our child’s
most precious advantage
—a_ baseball-walloping,
piggy-backing father.

AN OUNCE OF PREVENTION
Too-heavy responsibili-
ties, financial or otherwise,
cause tension. And con-
tinued tension is the
body’s enemy.

One of the most lasting

tension-easers is the com-
fort that comes when par-
ents have worked out a
realistic insurance pro-
gram with their Travelers
Agent and know that their
youngsters’ financial wel-
fare is assured.
And there are other ways we wives can ease the tension in
our husbands’ lives. We can limit community and social
demands on their energy. We can assume more of the
family responsibilities ourselves—get the car serviced reg-
ularly, pay the monthly bills. Above all, we can reduce
“extra’’ expenses.

BY JEAN KINKEAD, WOMEN’S
CONSULTANT TO THE TRAVELERS
INSURANCE COMPANIES

SAVING STEPS
One neighborhood I know has a cooperative day camp.
Only time and skills are exchanged. No money.

I know other young mothers he trade piano lessons
for home-cooked casseroles, language lessons for chauf-
feuring services.

Insurance, too, is a sound way of saving money —as
well as a way of saving your husband worries about how
you would make out if something happened to him.

So remember—even your Broads shouldered husband
is apt to be carrying a few too many worries these busy
days. Help him to get rid of them. He can, by putting his
family under the Travelers red umbrella of insurance pro-
tection. Ask him to spend an hour with a Travelers agent.
And by all means, take part in the talk yourself. His ex-
pert advice will make lighter-hearted parents of you both.

So that you will know what questions to ask, you may
want to read my free booklet before
you go. It’s called WHATEVERY WOMAN
SHOULD KNOW . . . ABOUT INSURANCE.

Write to me, Jean Kinkead, The Trav-
elers, Hartford 15, Connecticut. And
if you have any insurance questions
you'd like me to answer personally,

Til be happy to.

gag

120 4

BY MARGARET DAVIDSON
HOMEMAKING EDITOR

Alice’s Wonderland was probably not half so cofi-
fusing as the lanes of laundry supplies in today’s’
supermarkets. With such abundance of cleaning
products—the average market displays 250—one
would think washday woes a thing of the past.
Unfortunately, that’s not true. Writes a woman
from Galesburg, Illinois: i

“T am thoroughly disgusted with my washes

and I need help in a hurry to keep my sanity. My

clothes are dingy, gray, yellow and just plain dirty!
Each time I switch to a new product, I feel sure
my troubles are over. But after four to six months,
my wash still looks terrible. Can you suggest a rem<
edy for the wash or a tranquilizer to help me?”

Such general complaints are common. To solve” A

them, let’s get down to specifics.

How can I make dingy, gray and dirty
clothes look bright and white? Usually a three-
step wash is the ticket: 1—wash clothes in hot
(140°-160° F.) water with no detergent but a gener-
ous dose of water conditioner to remove leftover
washing compounds; 2—remove all silk or wool
pieces, then soak in dilute chlorine bleach (see label
for proportions); and 3— wash as usual with hot wa-
ter plus a full measure of all-purpose detergent and
powdered bluing.

How can I keep white clothes white? For ma-
chine washables, always keep the load small enough
so that clothes move freely in the water (with bulky
fabrics like terry towels, this may be lower than
rated machine capacity). Make sure the water is hot,
hot, hot! (140°-160° F.) and with your washer in-
structions as a guide, use a proper amount of a good
detergent or soap. Remember to add more washing
compound and check the water temperature ,
you reuse water from one washing to anot
Finally, consider using a light bleach.
Shirt collars never come clean. Pretré
soiled collars, cuffs and bra straps with andi
luted liquid detergents before adding the garments
to the washer (but consider this in measuring out de-
tergent later). And incidentally, this is a wonderful
refresher for dingy washcloths and towels. If you
don’t have a liquid detergent, moisten soiled areas,
add powdered detergent and rub well into stains.
My instructions say to use cool water for
synthetics. The cooler the water, the fewer the
creases to press out later in easy-care materials. For-
tunately, these materials shed dirt easily, but some-
times really soiled materials just do not come clean
unless warmer water is used. Our suggestion: wash
them in warmer, then rinse in cool water with a
fabric softener added especially for those to be line-
dried. If you’re lucky and have a dryer, most of
the creases will tumble out. But take garments from
the dryer while they’re still slightly moist for the
most wrinkle-free look.

A white cotton blouse has turned yellow ...
what do I do now? The cotton probably has a
resin ‘treatment to make it easier to iron. Chlorine
turns such materials yellow. But by using one of the
“‘ white” dyes made to strip color from fabrics before
redyeing, you can restore the original whiteness.
Is there some way to use the washer for
starching? Yes! Especially for curtains that you
want stiffened alike. Fill the tub with lukewarm
water (the last rinse for automatics) and stir in con-
centrated starch solution. Add clothes and continue
as for rinsing. For just a few things, dip them in
starch by hand, then use the machine to spin or
wring out the extra water.

What is the best way to wash blankets?
Shake blankets of loose dust, then rub liquid de-
tergent into bindings or soiled spots. Wash for not
more than three minutes. If the blanket is quite
soiled, stop machine after first minute of agitation
and let it soak ten minutes. Use gentle action if there
is such a machine setting.

My washer overflows all the time. Too many
suds, perhaps, particularly if yours is a front-loading
model. You’ll do better with a low-sudsing product.
Too many suds also mean less-clean clothes and
poorer rinses.

What about the new ready-to-use liquid de-
tergents and premeasured packages? Two of
the newest developments in all-purpose detergents,

it All
Comes Out

In The Wash...

Beautifully

thf WIRES

these timesavers. But pound for pound, they’re
more expensive.

Is there a way to take care of swimsuits?
Any swimsuit lasts longer if it’s rinsed often and
washed frequently to reduce toll of pool-water
chemicals, sea water, sand and salt. For rinsing, use
cool water and gentle action. For the wash, warm
water plus detergent, particularly for suits with
elastic, followed by rinse.

What’s the best soap or detergent for dainty
things? A light-duty product (powder or liquid) is
designed for hand-washables like woolen socks and
sweaters because it combines quickly with the wash
water. All-purpose detergents clean the delicate
things satisfactorily, but the milder ones are kinder
to colors, fabrics and fingers.

Do cold-water soaps or detergents really do
a good job? Yes, because they’re especially for-
mulated to dissolve in cold water and go to work
without delay. They pamper gloves, sweaters, elas-
ticized girdles, bras and swimsuits. But wash them
often because no cold-water washing will remove
ground-in grime.

Are all bleaches the same? No, there are three
different kinds. Two are chlorine bleaches: the old
familiar liquid (now helpfully bottled in lightweight
unbreakable plastic) and a dry chlorine bleach. Both
are fine for all fabrics except wool, silk, bright-

PHOTOGRAPH BY HAROLD BECKER DRESS BY JOSEPH LOVE

————_——— rr Te

colored materials and some cottons with special
resin finish. For best chlorine bleaching, always
dilute before using and always rinse thoroughly. For
badly stained materials or spot treatment, bleach)
before washing, diluted according to instructions,
For general whitening or brightening, add dilute
bleach to the first rinse and follow with a deep rinse|
(some washers dispense diluted bleach at the right!
time). The third kind of bleach, also in dry form, is
the safer peroxy bleach (also identified as a sodium-
perborate kind). New: premeasured packs that dis-
solve. This gentle bleach is the only one for silk and
wool, although it won’t produce spectacular results|
with badly stained cottons and linens.
What about bluing? Its sole purpose is to subset
tute a blue tinge, which pleases the eye, for a yellow-
ish cast which doesn’t. Most soaps and detergents
have built-in brighteners so that bluings aren’t al-
ways necessary. The most useful bluing with auto-
matic washers is one with a detergent base added to
the wash. For basin bluing: soak fabric in a blue-
detergent solution ten minutes for full brightening
effect.. Other bluings, in liquid, stick or tablet form, }
need to be dissolved first in water, then added to the
final rinse water.
What are fabric softeners for? These newest
washing products fluff piled fabrics like terry towels}
and corduroys. They’re good, too, for softening stiff)
new blue jeans or damasks, reducing all clothes
wrinkles, making ironing easier and cutting static
electricity in synthetics which makes slips and
blouses cling.
Our water is so-o-o hard! But we can’t afford
a plumbed-in water softener. Best, of course, is
the plumbed-in system. But when this isn’t avail-.
able, use conditioner that softens water without
leaving an insoluble film.
My son tinkers with his car and gets his
slacks and shirts unwashably dirty. Before
clothes go into the washer, rub a liquid detergent or |
a paste of the all-purpose dry detergent into bad
spots. Then wash with hot water plus more all-
purpose detergent and a little bleach, either diluted’
and added with the first rinse or added auto-
matically by the machine.
There are grease spots on my dark-blue nap- |
kins that don’t wash out.If the spots have been |
washed and ironed, they may never vanish com-
pletely, although the treatment for fresh stains will ]
lighten them. Pretreat lipstick and grease by spong- |
ing with spot remover and rubbing liquid detergent |
or detergent paste into them. Then launder. —
My white nylon slips are so dingy I can’t)
bear to wear them. Treat first with one of the]
‘white dyes’ used to take color out before redyeing |
fabrics. Then soak in a concentrated solution of |
liquid detergent with very little water. Finally, wash | |
in warm water and rinse in cool water with fabric |
softener which will keep down static electricity so |
that fabrics don’t attract as much dust and dye from |
dark clothes. With hand washing, synthetics get |
dingy if a stray colored item gets lost in the bowl
with the whites or if too much is crowded into the
wash water so that the soil isn’t flushed out. '
I’ve never been able to starch things right.
Whether it’s the dry kind you cook or liquid (con-
venient but more expensive), starch belongs in ev-
ery laundry. You can buy an already-cooked dry
starch that’s ready to use after mixing with col
water (good for dark cottons because it.leaves n
whitish film). Plastic stiffeners generally give a mor
pliable finish than cornstarch; however, some wash
out with the next washing. Others may last through
four to six launderings. The first time around for the
lasting types, follow directions because an overdose
will mean a board-stiff finish that’s hard to remove.
Newest starches and some plastic finishes come in
spray cans to be used as you iron. Excellent for sin
gle items or crisping collars and cuffs, they’re prob
ably too costly for the full laundry load.

The best bet, we find, for better washes is to kno
what soap or detergent to use, what brightener o
bleach. When, why and how much. Washday blues
will go down the drain when we kiss the by-guess
and-by-gosh system good-bye and follow machin
and product manufacturers’ instructions pre
cisely—as though we were baking a cake! END

Deci
lug |

y. Po
lea

NEw EUREKA PBiincess

Y a ra
(om Sn
| 4 s

NEW MOBILITY

NEW EXTRA LARGE

® DUST BAG

NEW DELUXE CLEANING TOOLS

=a
CORD-HOLDER HANDLE

NEW DEEP-CLEANING
RUG NOZZLE

PACKED WITH POWER- LESS WEIGHT AND BULK-—LAVISH WITH FEATURES — LOWER IN PRICE

New Eureka Princess!—for the lady with neither time
nor closet space to spare. Or money. In features per
dollar, here’s the savingest cleaner ever!

FLIP-TOP LID — flips wide open for easy bag changes.

EXTRA LARGE DUST BAG — less bag changing. Sani-
tized® for lasting freshness.

MOBILITY — New trim size weighs just 121 pounds.

Rolls easy, carries light, turns without tipping, stores
small.

DELUXE CLEANING TOOLS — 8 pc. set, for rugs, floors,

upholstery, dusting, etc. . .
cleaning rug nozzle.

. complete with deep-

CORD-HOLDER HANDLE — Shaped and balanced to fit
the hand. Cord winds around it securely for storing.

POWERFUL MOTOR — Over 1 H.P. to assure finest deep
cleaning.

TOE SWITCH — No stooping or bending to turn it on
and off.

AIR JET — Attach hose for spraying, demothing, blow-
ing out corners and crevices.

POWER ADJUSTER — Gentles suction to clean lamp
shades, blinds, general dusting.

All this and more. Your Eureka dealer can tell you.
See him. Your dollar buys big again!

. ... Aid be sure to see the new EUREKA Prince (it’s the Princess PLUS!)

E URE K A — Eureka Williams Company

Bloomington, Illinois

PRINCESS
MODEL
7O2-A

‘3

PRICE HIGHER IN CANADA

Div. of National Union Electric Corporation

‘“NOW-- | EAT BETTER, FASTER AND MORE
COMFORTABLY WITH MY FALSE TEETH BY

RAISING MY BITING POWER”
Mr K. MCM., Rye, N.Y.

Dental plates give only 26% average biting power of natural teeth. FASTEETH
raises biting force—cushions sensitive gums—holds teeth more securely.

Be happy with your false teeth. Laugh, talk, eat without
embarrassment. Wear teeth all day long with more
comfort. Use FASTEETH — the special powder thou-
sands of dentists give patients to hold plates more
firmly in place. You may speak more clearly—eat faster.
FASTEETH soothes and protects tender gums when
chewing.You can bite harder — enjoy the hard-to-eat
foods you need. FASTEETH checks “plate odor’ (den-
ture breath). No gummy, gooey, “pasty” feel. At drug
counters everywhere. FASTEETH Outsells all Others.

STOP PAIN INSTANTLY

COMBAT INFECTION “PROMOTE HEALING

WITH SOOTHING

Campho-Phenique |

(PRONOUNCED CAM-FO-FIN-EEK vay S

FEVER BLISTERS

COLD SORES, GUM BOILS

ia Res
aes)

USE IT
FOR

| Campho-

Not only do fever blisters heal faster, but the same thing hap- } Po

pens when Campho-Phenique is used on cold sores, gum boils. Phenique

Wonderfully soothing too, for minor burns, poison ivy, itching Pani nccicviee
of insect bites. And Campho-Phenique is a highly effective, Anise
pain-relieving antiseptic for minor cuts and scratches from
paring knives, can openers, tin cans, etc. Used on pimples,
Campho-Phenique helps prevent their spread and re-infection.

Reese Fe aoe
STANCES ~ LIQUIE
Cone hela (oneog and CoO.
40 hacen lok. Gig RP

2 tuto oF
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a 9 east

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Juices lemons, limes,
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ELECTRIC JUICER

THE STUCK POT

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 43

like that get to be dean? “Every girl is involved
in this dance. Remember, all the Jason School
boys will be here. You'll want to welcome
them, I’m sure.”

Well, she may have been sure, but I wasn’t.
Jason School boys! That was all the girls
talked about. And what do those boys do
when they come to parties here? They come
in as if someone were pushing them in and
leave as if finally released from jail. A few can
dance and they pick the prettiest girls and they
dance. The rest step on girls’ feet and mop hot
faces. I don’t care for boys, and especially not
Jason School boys!

Miss Taggart cleared her throat and I knew
she was going to try to get me adjusted to
group behavior. Sometimes I see her as a
mechanic with screwdriver and calipers, turn-
ing one of my screws a little this way or a little
that. Other times, I see her as the conductor
of an orchestra, working to get all the instru-
ments in tune and the music coming at exactly
the same tempo. These ideas keep me amused
while she is lecturing me. She leaned toward
me now, pointing her baton—or was it her
screwdriver?; really, it was only a pencil—
and gave me that horrible smile.

“This is educational, too, Alice Ann,”’ she
said. “Social growth must keep pace with in-
tellectual growth if we are to have a well-
rounded personality.”

There wasn’t any use arguing with her. You
know how grown-ups are: they say they want
you to make decisions, but they only want you
to decide the way they have already decided.

I wasn’t going to have her think she had
sold me anything, so I didn’t even look
pleasant.

“If I have to go, I have to go,”’ I told her. “I
will not look forward to it with pleasure or
have a good time while I am there. How long
do I have to stay, Miss Taggart? Surely not
all evening?”

She sort of sighed and shook her head. Her
secretary came in and said Dr. Jacoby was
there to see her, so she patted my shoulder
and said to be sure and wear my prettiest
dress on Saturday night. I don’t even have a
prettiest dress.

As I went out, Dr. Jacoby went in. They
greeted each other like old pals. All the girls
think Taggart is in love with Jacoby, who is
the dean at Jason School. But I, personally,
don’t see how she could even like him, he is
so dopey looking. He, of course, had come
to talk to her about the dance this Saturday
night.

When I got almost to French class, I re-
membered that I had left my book in Tag-
gart’s office, so I turned around and hurried
back. Her secretary had gone out leaving both
doors open, and inside I could hear Taggart
laughing.

“A ‘stuck pot’? Explain it again.”

: : ¥

“Years of planning and dreaming about get-
ting married and now everything is over!”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL Wi’

“It is fairly simple. All the boys pitch in"
fifty cents. The boy who gets stuck the worst at
the dance gets the entire pot. About seventy-
five or a hundred dollars. I understand it is al- ®
most a hundred percent subscribed.”

“But, Dr. Jacoby,” she said, and she#**
sounded amused, “I thought you were train- B®
ing your boys to be gentlemen!” =.

Boy, if our girls were caught doing a thing jst
like that, we’d never hear the end of the
lecture! pie

“Just a little inventiveness of the masculine #
mind,” the old dope went on. “I’m not sup-
posed to know a thing about it, so I can’t take
any action. What the girls don’t know, in this: |
case, can’t possibly hurt them. If I pounced on iT
this, I'd disclose my source of information, §!™
heaven forbid! I may need that source fog }™’
something worse than a stuck pot.” _0

I had heard enough, so I got out of there, }'
The whole Worthington Women’s Academy ¥'™
would be furious when they found out. And #!"!
how were they going to find out? I meant to /™
tell them, that is how they would find it out, §0

Every evening but Saturday we have to dress
for dinner, like ladies. Old Taggart stands at #5"
the door and says ““Good evening” to each of #®
us as we enter the dining room. She tries to //!0!
make it sound like love-and-kisses, but what }!
it really is is inspection. People her age just ##!'
don’t know how to be sincere. Of course peo- #0!
ple our age aren’t allowed to be. They can #0
call what they force on us courtesy or man- }®!
ners; but what is natural is also rude to the }m
adult mind. mon

So this evening we all filed in to dinner i’
with our faces washed. We are so neat it is a [ii
wonder they don’t make us wear white gloves. i
A teacher sits at each table and we are sup- i)
posed to make polite conversation while we
eat. Thursdays the conversation has to be in |!
French, for heaven’s sake! Since that is what ivr
we have to do, that is what we do—on top of #*
the table. Underneath, it is different. Some- i
times you get kicked so hard it almost brings }iti!
tears to your eyes, but you are not supposed }i!
to blink, flinch, or even hesitate in the middle /Vi
of what you are saying. Our rules are that each fiw
one passes the kick on. If you are trying to }mil
answer a teacher, you almost always get 0
kicked—sometimes from both sides. I guess
that is why we make such very brief remarks. } Wal

I don’t get kicked as much as some girls
because I learned right away never to show | Tcan
my feelings, and I can kick back harder than /i)
anyone without anything showing above the #iz
table. I practiced and practiced at my study }ilk
table during study hours. I can even talk and 4s!
kick at the same time and not grunt. Because #1!
of this game some of the girls have been trying foi
to get the Student Council to petition for spike lun
heels at dinner, but as long as I am on the #1
council they will never get that through. Those kz
silly spikes would rip my legs up good the ihe
first night. Ai 0

This evening was Teachers’ Council. The |i
teachers make a great thing out of excusing | A

oat

phad

ee ee ee

ona

MY, 1962

\@imselves on TC nights just before dessert,
\@l going off to the library to talk about us
igh their coffee. We are supposed to eat our
\i@sert and then go quietly to the lounge or to
rooms for a half hour before the bell rings
if the evening study hour. I was still churr-
ii, over that stuck-pot thing and I wasn’t go-
-to let Miss Campbell, our table teacher,
lilak she was selling me anything.
said, putting on my sweetest smile—which
ot really sweet at all, because I am not the
bet type—“‘It is only plain gelatin. I asked
wll cook.”
wo one would hate to miss that kind of
i@sert. Desserts are never very good at our
(§iool. They give you all that stuff about keep-
iil young complexions clear with simple foods
{eustify it. I could see that old two-demerit
1m in Miss Campbell’s eyes, but she went
aout without saying anything. I knew the
ea it time I gave her any opportunity at all
id slap them on me. That is adults for you.
As soon as the teachers were safely out of
wil) room, I tapped on my glass with the edge
Mi y knife, the way Taggart does when she
\Mats to say something, only I whanged mine
hid enough to make it rock.
‘ If you will all gather around in the end of
Wh | lounge right after you eat this colored
‘er, I have something important to tell you.
bit of information that has come my way.’
“yam weak in Leadership Ability on the charts,
wit, so I knew that some of the girls might
\ respond. All that any of them were plan-
on doing, really, was going into huddles
aut what dress to wear to this stupid dance
\@ whether or not they could get away with
yhl- done up in zombi fashion, which they all
j 1k is high style and the teachers not lady-

Ne You'd better be there, if you know what is
Hi id for you,” I told them.
" Ne had Mary Jane keep her eye on the
oll lary door. Most of the girls crowded down
Bond the tennis tables, but I had quite a time
x jing them to be still.
4 When you characters shut up, I'll tell you
1ething I found out by accident today that
make you plenty mad. A horrible thing is
g put over on us.”
ell, that shut them up all right. Even Mary
2 wanted to hear and had to be reminded
p@ner duty.
Ni can see the door from here,”’ she pleaded.
Surry up, Alice, they might have a short
| sting.”
ng ‘0 then I told them about the stuck pot. I
_® still very angry about Jason boys’ doing
! ' a thing since they are such drips and we
ae doing them a favor having them over to
»itfdumb party in the first place. So I probably
ated a little to what old Jacoby had said.
hi “he girls just howled. I had to hush them for
f& the teachers would send out an emissary
nd out what we were doing.
qyphere was a lull while they, thought it over.
r “neach began to say what they thought and
st of them thought it was the meanest thing
had ever heard of.
Let’s just call and take back our invita-
1,” said Gail. Gail is sort of like me only
so much so.
And then let’s ask some other boys,”’ said
7. Kay’s hair is bottle-blond and she wears
makeup the minute she gets away where
school can’t see her. Parties are the big thing
mer: °.,
Let’s have it just a girl dance,’ Ann said,
f she thought that was much the best way
lave a party anyway.
ut Susan, who is president of the Student
ncil and very stable, according to her
, Shook her head.

{
;
|
f

-
|
|

aggart would never allow us to do any of
se things,” she said. “She thinks mixed
ces are preparing us for life after we leave
cloister, so there is no use talking to her.
won't let us ask any other boys because
Jason boys are already screened. She’d be
id the wrong sort would get in if just any
S were asked.”

hese boys don’t oe so right to me,’
ttered.
hen some of the ris started saying that

just knew that this boy or that one
Idn’t do it because they had some dates
d up, which was against the rules. Every

‘

boy is supposed to take his chances with what
he gets when he comes over here, though some
of them know how to get around that.

“Jacoby said that they were all in it,” I
told them, “and all means all.”

“Since Alice found this out for us ahead of
time,” said Susan, ‘‘what we need to do is to
get even.”

“What we need,” I said, out of patience with
them all, “is a stuck pot of our own.”

“That’s it!” cried Susan, grabbing me by
the arm. ‘‘That is what we will do. Let’s all
pitch in fifty cents and have our own hundred
dollars for the girl who gets stuck the worst.”

“Let’s all pitch in a dollar and have twice
what they have,” cried Connie.

Then there was a lot of wrangling about a
dollar being almost all we were allowed to

A GRAY
SPRING MORNING

By JOHN CIARDI

| can just see from the attic window
how the jay in the dripping hemlock
rises from her nest

to shake off this weather,

then settles back upon her eggs

the tropic of her breast.

How many small lives there are
at a roof edge! In the pin oak

a gray squirrel nibbles the buds
that were not there yesterday.
A grackle one branch away

sits by, looking and not looking,
wary, but sure of himself.

The hemlock is nearly solid
against the sky. The pin oak,
barely open, barely traces itself
against the total gray.

Below me, under the pin oak, lilac
raises a green cloudhead,
wet and abundant.

Under the lilac,

in red and yellow rain hats,
children raise their faces
and shake rain

into their laughter.

If God is leaning

from any sill of heaven,

He could ring Himself a praise
to out-echo all arches

by looking here.

spend in a week. Some of the pretty girls said
they didn’t think they had much chance to
win it, so why should they contribute?

“For all that money, I’d be willing to be
stuck all evening with the stupidest boy that
Jason School brings over,” hollered Susan, for-
getting how stable her chart showed she was
and thinking about a trip to New York that
her folks said she couldn’t afford.

Then Leslie, who is the real beauty queen
of the school, got a sort of faraway look in her
eyes and this time it wasn’t for a boy.

“I’m willing and anxious to be the biggest
drip in the place for that much money. There
is a velvet sheath in Folson’s window that has
white fur bands on it and I dream of it at
night. If I could win the pot, I’d have that
dress.”

That did it. Everybody had seen that dress
in Folson’s. They made Susan treasurer and
everybody promised to bring her their dollar
sometime tomorrow.

‘““How are we going to tell who is stuck the
very worst?’ Becki wanted to know, so we
had to get that settled.

**How about if the pot goes to the girl that
the boy who won the Jason pot got stuck
with?” I put in. I wanted the pot, too, but not

for any slinky dress with white fur hanging
all over it. I have had a picture of a microscope
cut out and pinned to my board for months
and that was what Id buy if I won the money.
I felt I had a pretty good chance. Boys don’t
want to dance with me and the feeling is
mutual.

‘The all thought that was the ideal way to
settle it, but then the question came up:
how would we find out which Jason boy got
the money? They wouldn’t decide until after
they got back to school.

Leslie smiled real sweetly and ran her fin-
gers through her hair very elegantly.

“Remember my little brother, over at
Jason? He’ll tell the very next day, or dear
sister will threaten to tell the stuck-pot story
to all relatives, friends and teachers.”

Then we all relaxed because Leslie knew
how to do stuff like that. Everybody began to
make plans to win the pot.

“Tl come in my gym suit—and dibs on the
idea,” cried Becki. ““Gym shoes too.”

“Oh, come now,” said Connie, who had
been thinking very hard—and, being older,
got a broader view, she always said. “You
can’t do that. How would you get by old
Taggart at the foot of the stairs? You'll have
to dress well enough to stand inspection. It
is going to take lots of subtle stuff to win this
money. Remember, all the teachers will be
standing around.”

“Is this gambling?” asked one of the
younger girls. “If it is, I can’t do it because I
pledged not to drink and gamble.”

“This is not gambling,” said Susan in her
chairman voice. “This is going to take brains,
hard work and self-sacrifice. And may the
worst one win!”

That was when the library doors opened, so
Mary Jane began to play the piano and all the
girls started to sing old-fashioned songs be-
cause that always makes the teachers senti-
mental and takes away any suspicion that
we might have been up to something in their
absence.

This was Wednesday and the stupid party
was Saturday night, so we didn’t have much
time. I figured I didn’t need to do anything
much as I am already unpopular in my
natural state. I thought about a smelly chemi-
cal mixture I could mix up in class, because
Jameson didn’t pay much attention to what
was going on in her room. I figured maybe I
could get into a crowd and slip by Taggart at
the foot of the stairs before she figured out
where that rotten-egg odor came from. That
was about all I thought I needed to do.

The next night, when the study period was
just over and Gail and I were considering get-
ting out some candy we had hidden away, but
wondering if we could eat it without some of
the other girls coming in and wanting some,
there was a knock on our door and Taggart
came in. She often walks around the dorm just
before bedtime for “‘little talks” with the girls,
but mostly, I think, to see if she can smell any
tobacco smoke. She is not going to smell any
in our room as Gail and I both know all
about how harmful tobacco is and don’t
mean to ever smoke because we are going to
be scientists and take a scientific attitude to-
ward things. Besides, we need what money we
have for extra food because, as I explained,
the desserts are very bad here and we dream
of stuff like that.

But she wasn’t after smoke. She had come
to “adjust” me a little more. She started talk-
ing about the dance and how we never learned
to be a part of the social side of life unless we
practiced and it was easier to start when we
were young. She talked this way for some time.
I didn’t say much because it was not a discus-
sion. She wasn’t about to let me say what I
thought. She went on about how she was glad
that I took such an interest in chemistry and
Miss Jameson said that I was very brilliant,
but that there was a time and place for every-
thing, wasn’t there?

“Yes, ma’am,”’ I said, but I didn’t try to
act as if I meant it.

She began to talk about clothes and men-
tioned that now might be an ideal time to
wear that pink silk dress that my Aunt Ger-
trude had sent me several months ago. How
anybody could think that any time might be
ideal to wear that thing! It was ruffled and

123

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laced and even Leslie would have looked like
a cow in it. My mother, who hopes that the
school will soften me, laughed when she saw
it when she was here on Parents’ Day.

“Thank Aunt Gertrude for it and put it
back for Halloween,” she said. ““You look
much prettier in simple clothes.”

All at once, when Taggart said that, I could
see that dress on me at the dance and me smell-
ing like rotten eggs! After Taggart went out,
I told Gail we were practically looking through
that microscope.

Friday night at dinner I don’t think anybody
got kicked. Susan had invited us to all drop
into her room and see the stuck pot—a big
cake tin stuffed with dollar bills. It was a
wonderfully inspiring sight! The few girls who
had held out got their dollars, too, and we
were a hundred percent!

“My, what bright eyes and excited voices
we have around the table this evening,” said
Miss Campbell. ““Tomorrow night will be a
very gala occasion.”

Miss Campbell is quite old and it is hard
not to like her. Ordinarily our parties are not
what anybody would refer to as “gala,” but
tonight we all agreed, “Yes, indeed; very, very
gala.”

The boys were to come at eight o’clock and
we all had to be downstairs between a quarter
of and the hour. I figured that I'd put on The
Smell the very last thing, just to be safe, but I
did get dressed early in that pink dress and I
ran a comb through my hair. I couldn’t help
but admire myself in the mirror—I looked per-
fectly horrible. What a dress! The other girls
would be green with envy. It was such a subtle
horrible effect that Taggart couldn’t possibly
object.

I went over to Leslie’s room to see what the
Fairy Queen was doing about earning her
blue velvet dress. She looked pretty dreamy, as
usual, fooling with her hair in front of the
mirror.

‘‘What is your angle?” I asked her.

“Tm just too darned good-looking for my
own good! This crazy hair insists on going
just right. ’'ve got an angle though. Ill tell
you—but dibs on the idea. I’m going to tell
every boy who dances with me that he is a
horrible dancer and that I hate boys anyway.
I’m going to be so mean they'll not want to
come near me! Of course I’m looking just as
droopy as I can too.”

I smiled to myself. Leslie is older than I am,
but I was pretty sure that what she was going
to do would only egg the boys on. Boys are so
funny. which is one of the reasons I never
liked them. Leslie and I had got to be good
friends this week, but that didn’t mean that
I wasn’t pleased to think my microscope was
still safe.

I tried Becki’s room. She was all dressed in
a pretty stupid flouncy thing instead of the
black sheath number that she had just talked
her mother out of. Her mother had said the
sheath would only get her sent back upstairs
for a jacket, but she should live and learn.
Becki had figured the dress was just what
would send those Jason boys, but tonight it
hung in her closet. She made me promise not
to tell anyone, then showed me under one of
her flounces a squirt-gun thing. It sure shot
out a stream of water. There were going to be
some mighty wet boys tonight!

For a while I worried about Becki’s idea.
It was pretty sensational. But then I thought
about the crazy things boys do all the time and
how Becki has so much more in some places
than the rest of us. They just might spoil
her chance to win the stuck pot.

1
Sharon had on her glasses. She figures they
make her repulsive. Connie had her hair
combed straight down and kind of witchy,
and a straight pin fastened point down under
a wrist band.

When it was time to go downstairs, every-
body sort of bunched around and giggled as
we pulled on the white gloves we had to wear.
There wasn’t a hair-set in the place, no lipstick
or earrings, and they all wore flats instead of
their beloved high heels that were permitted
tonight. I found myself giggling along with
them, though usually I am not the type. There

| wasn’t anything the faculty could object to,

but plenty that they weren’t going to under-
stand.

I went back to my room, dumped on the
stuff in the test tube, and went back out with
supreme confidence—the first time in my life
I ever felt this way before a dance.

I knew I was going to win and I'll tell you
right now that I did too.

After the dance we all sat around tensely
waiting, though by that time lots of the girls
knew they weren’t going to make it. The
boys must have decided before they got back
to Jason, because it wasn’t long before the
phone rang and Leslie’s brother said that
Bill James had won the money because he
got stuck the most with the girl in the pink
dress and the awful smell. That was me!
Hooray! The girls cheered and Susan got
the stuck pot and gave it to me. I was never
so proud in my life. The girls said I deserved
it and also that they had never had such a
good time at a dance in all their life.

L. was fun.

Before the party began, I got by Taggart all
right. She seemed to be checking mostly to
see if we all had on our gloves. Usually the
girls wear enough perfume to hide any smell,
but tonight, of course, no one did. Taggart
smiled encouragingly at my pink dress and I
smiled right back. She had been entirely
right—I was going to have a wonderful eve-
ning!

The boys came in the way they always do.
The door opened and they were pushed
through. The first dance was a “get acquainted”
and we had to match numbered cards. Usu-
ally I die a thousand deaths waiting, but to-
night I stood there proudly, knowing that
some boy was due for a shock. He said his
name was John Evans, but that is about all he
said. I could see him getting sort of green
when we started to dance and after a little
while he said *‘Excuse me” in a hurry and went
to the john that now had “Boys” above the
door.

The next dance was Change Your Partner.
Nobody wanted to even get near me. So when
the whistle blew, they ran all over the room
looking for someone else to tag. I had plenty
of time to watch the rest of the girls.

Leslie was almost in tears. The madder she
got, the prettier she looked. And the meaner
she talked, the more they came back. She got
exchanged every time the whistle blew and
the boys hung around close betweentimes to
be sure to get to her first. I saw her finally kick
one boy, but he just laughed. She told me later
that though she was sorry she didn’t win the
stuck pot, she had learned a lesson that might
do her more good than a velvet dress with
white fur on it. She didn’t say what the lesson
was.

Becki had used her squirt gun so much that
she already had had to sneak out for several
refills. She isn’t as beautiful as Leslie; but
whatever it is she has, boys always like her.
They liked her squirt gun too; they kept send-
ing other boys over to dance with her so that
they would get her message. She was as
popular as Leslie. She didn’t get mad, though.
She just decided that if she couldn’t win, she
could have fun. It got pretty wild where she
was.

Connie used her pin with deadly aim, but
they thought that was funny and kept telling
the other boys what a “sharp character’ she
was. In fact, after an hour or so, the boys
were saying to each other, “It’s wild, man!”
the way boys do when they mean it’s a whole
lot more fun than they ever thought possible.
Except, of course, no one said it around me.
It was pretty obvious Bill James and I were
going to win the stuck pot.

He drew my name about the third dance. He
is tall and conceited-looking, 1 thought when
I saw it happen, and just the type to have to
dance with the rotten eggs ! But he just took a
big sniff and said, “Ah! Right out of the chem
lab!’ and told me just what I had put in it.

He talked a whole lot while we were dancing
and though neither of us is able to dance
very well there was so much space left all
around us, caused by people not wanting to
get close, that we got along all right. He sort
of muddled one foot and then another and
so did I. He liked the idea of the chem project
that I had had to give up in order to come to
the dance and he said I should try asking for
special time to do it.

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Vhen it was time for food Bill was still stuck
h me. Instead of me having to find a corner
{ wouldn’t look conspicuous, which is why
ave always hated parties, he said if I'd
1 a couple of chairs, he would get our food
|| we'd talk some more. He wasn’t conceited
I!

ile I was holding the chairs and waiting
him, I heard Taggart and old Jacoby talk-
| together right around the corner behind

) This is the most amazing party I ever
; Bl”? he told her. “Your girls look positively
_ fiimpy and the place is beginning to spin like
; flasketball game!”

jsgphe said, “When two groups of stuck pots
st head on, you can see the results.”

/ You promised you wouldn’t tell them!”’ he
ilered.

I didn’t,” Taggart said. “One of my most
yonsible girls happened to overhear and I
w I didn’t have to worry. Never underesti-
te! By the way, when Leslie Baron’s little
ther slips down to use the telephone, don’t
ich him at it. He is detailed to make a re-
t on the results of the vote and I don’t
t the girls left in suspense any longer than
essary.”

mho old Taggart knew we knew all the time! I
|more kindly toward her than I ever had in
y life.

‘felt so good about everything, which is
‘| my usual feeling at parties, that when Bill
he back with sandwiches and cookies all
d up and punch cups jiggling, I told him
i®/ I smelled so bad.

e looked at me kind of funny and said,
ire, | know. I kicked in my four bits and I

NEW
4 SYNTHETICS

| OTHER VIEWS, SIZES AND PRICES
ll OF VOGUE PATTERNS
| ON PAGES 56 AND 57.

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sure wanted to win. I’ve got my eye on a tele-
scope.”

“I want a microscope,” I told him. “I have
a picture of just what I want. It costs a hun-
dred dollars and I'll never raise that much
money unless I win the stuck pot. Don’t you
think I will? None of the other boys will come
near me!”

“You can’t win—according to your rules—
unless I win first,’ he pointed out.

We sat there and chewed our food and
thought it over. If we didn’t quit looking so
polite to each other, nobody would think we
were stuck.

“Look,” he said, “would you get your feel-
ings hurt if I began to act like I couldn’t stand
you?”

“Td consider it a great favor,” I told him.
“Otherwise we'll never get our ’scopes.”’

“T could make up for being so mean tonight
by bringing my telescope over some Sunday
evening during visiting hours, and letting you
look through it.”

I thought that was very fair, so he went to
work. He moved over a chair, but pretty soon
I moved over, too, and he looked real pained
just as a whole bunch of boys walked by. They
looked sympathetic and a couple held their
noses.

Boy! From then on we had it made. When
we danced, he held me way off and looked
pretty sick. I stepped on his foot a time or two
and he hopped around to show how it hurt.
We didn’t have very many more exchange
dances after that, so it was pretty apparent he
was really stuck. I never had so much fun in
my life! Every time no one was around, he’d
say real funny things to me. We got so wrapped

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Ml VOGUE DESIGN NO. 5556.

“Easy to Make’’ one-piece dress; 10-18 (31-38);

$1.00, in Canada $1.10. Version with sleeves requires 274 yards of 45” fabric

nap, size 14.

without nap. Sleeveless version shown requires 25g yards of 45” fabric without

Buy Vogue Patterns at the store which sells them in your city. Or order by mail, enclosing check or money

order*, from Vogue Pattern Service, P.O. Box 630,

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up in our game and thought of so many ways
of looking miserable together that we could
hardly believe it when it was time for the Jason
boys to go home.

The party had got so goony that Miss Tag-
gart and old Jacoby looked real beat. The boys
were talking like beatniks and saying “Crazy,
man!” to everything. They were supposed to
tell us they had had a nice evening, but I
heard Jacoby tell Miss Taggart that all he was
going to try to do was break this up and get
them out of there. He said to heck with man-

ners.
Bill remembered our act right to the end. He
hid behind some other boys so I couldn’t tell

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him good night. They almost voted him the
stuck pot right then.

“Better take a good hot bath before you go
to bed,” Miss Taggart said to me as we all
told her good night before going off to our
rooms in the dorms. “That dress was just right
for the occasion, wasn’t it? And you did have
a good time at the dance, didn’t you?”

[| looked at her. There was something in her
expression that I liked. What the heck, if ’m
maladjusted and everybody knows it, it’s all
right for me to be the only girl in the school
that likes the dean!

“Good night,” I told her. “T’ll show you my
new microscope when I get it.” END

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JOURNALITIES

In their quest for outstanding material
forthe JOURNAL, three of our editors, in
a typical year on the job, collectively
consume 533 expensive lunches, at-
tend 127 plays(113 of whichare flops),
hail 1548 taxicabs (subsequently los-
ing umbrellas in 7 of them), miss 26
trains, and are kissed by 89 celebrities
of the opposite sex.

To Mary Lea Page, William McCleery
and Peter Briggs, such apparently
painless living is all in a day's work. As
editors-at-large, they have the delight-
ful duty of scouting out new fiction and
nonfiction and purchasing choice se-
lections for the pages of the JOURNAL.

Not all business is conducted over
the lunch table, however. An editor
may travel thousands of miles to se-
cure a promise of ‘‘first look’’ at a
prominent author’s upcoming book.
In one recent month Bill McCleery flew
to New Hampshire to talk with Alec
Waugh, to North Carolina to talk with
“Miss Dove"’ author Frances Gray
Patton and Camilla Bittle (whose new
novel, THE BOY IN THE POOL, we'll pub-
lish soon).

There are occupational hazards.
“Biffie’’ Page (above), who admits to
being completely helpless about sub-
ways, usually asks directions of an
equally befuddled passenger and ends
up in the Bronx. Peter Briggs is con-
vinced that every cab driver in New
York is either writing a novel, about
to write one, or trying to sell one
he's just finished.

Asked to describe one day’s duties,
our three editors contributed the fol-
lowing hypothetical schedule: an inter-
earl Buck in her Manhattan
apartment, a leisurely lunch at Sardi's

view with P

with Phyllis McGinley, appointments
ith a series of authors’ agents eager
t idle their clients’ latest novels
1} N Itt famous actress

to write her

THE MAGAZINE WOMEN BELIEVE IN

VOLUME LXXIX NUMBER 6

CONDENSED BOOK

THE LONELY LIFE (Part 1 of 3) . Bette Davis

SHORT STORIES
A TASTE FOR MARRIAGE .
THE ROSES
THE OLD DOG.

Kaatje Hurlbut
. Lee Murdaugh
Dorothy Black

ARTICLES

THERE’S SOMETHING YOU OUGHT TO KNOW ABOUT MEN
Joye e Lubold

CAN THIS CHILD BE SAVED? THE STORY OF A BAD BOY
Neal Gilkyson Stuart

SUNDAY IS A DAY OF REST . Credits . Will Stanton
THE CHEAPEST WAY TO GO TO COLLEGE
NEW WEAPONS AGAINST BREAST CANCER

CANCER’S WORST ENEMY: EARLY DIAGNOSIS
Elaine St. Maur Hayes

BELTS .
. Glenn White 1

Sidney Margolius
Betty Coe Spicer

A MATTER OF LIFE OR DEATH
HERE COMES COLLEGE

SEAT

REGULAR FEATURES
OUR READERS WRITE US
MAKING MARRIAGE WORK
THERE’S A MAN IN THE HOUSE
DR. SPOCK TALKS WITH MOTHERS:

HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN DIVORCE TO A CHILD?
Benjamin Spock, M.D.

Goodrich C. Schauffler, M.D.
THE JOURNAL

Clifford R. Adams, Ph.D.
Harlan Miller

TELL ME, DOCTOR
FIFTY YEARS AGO IN

44
46

49
93
00

JUNE 1962 35c

FASHION AND BEAUTY
SUNGLASSES AND SUMMER MAKEUP.
SUMMER COVER-UPS. Nora O'Leary
BRIDAL AND BEGUILING . Wilhela Cushman
HOW TO DRESS WELL ON PRACTICALLY NOTHING:
SEASIDE SEPARATES. ase . Bet Hart
IN PRETTY SHAPE FOR SUMMER .

. Bruce Clerke

FOOD
THE HOSTESS WHO MAKES EVERYTHING LOOK EASY
Ruth Mills Teague
FROM ME TO YOU Hisense . Marcelene Cox
THE ENCHANTMENT OF EATING OUTDOORS
Spit-Barbecue a Leg of Lamb ,
Cold Buffet on the Patio.
One Hot Dish by the Pool .

Nancy Crawford Wood

54d
64
66

ARCHITECTURE, DECORATION AND GARDENING

COMPACT HOUSE FOR A LARGE FAMILY. John Brenneman
SUMMER IS IN THE AIR .Richard Pratt
EASY AS A PICNIC. Lema Cynthia Kellogg
ALL SET FOR DINING OUTDOORS.

POEMS
KAUFMANN’S LAWS. . Walter Kaufmann
HAPPINESS . parents
COMMENCEMENT NOSEGAY
TO A NEW GRANDMOTHER .

Malcolm Lowry
Elizabeth Henley

COVER PHOTOGRAPH BY HOWELL CONANT

il
52
60
62

Barbara Rohde 106—

CURTISS ANDERSON

MARY BASS

Executive Editor

TOM HECK

Art Director

GERALDINE RHOADS

Administrative Editor

Associate Editors
PETER BRIGGS, WILLIAM McCLEERY, MARY LEA PAGE Editors-at-Large

NEAL GILKYSON STUART Articles

NANCY CRAWFORD WOOD Foods
CYNTHIA KELLOGG Decorating «

MARGARET PARTON «
BET HART

BETTY COE SPICER «+

JEAN TODD FREEMAN Fiction

CATHERINE DI MONTEZEMOLO Fashions
BRUCE CLERKE Beauly «
MARGARET DAVIDSON Home management

NORA O’LEARY Patterns
JOHN H. BRENNEMAN Home building
BETTY HANNAH HOFFMAN

BERENICE CONNOR

ANNE EINSELEN Svory-discovery department
MARGARET HICKEY Public affairs « GLENN WHITE Special assignments

Editorial Associates

JOHN WERNER -
JOYCE POSSON -«

RUTH MARY PACKARD
DOROTHY ANNE ROBINSON

JOSEPH DI PIETRO -
LIANE WAITE «+

ELIZABETH GOETSCH
JIM ABEL «+ GRANT HARRIS

Assistant Editors

VICTORIA HARRIS «
LEE STOWELL CULLEN -

ALICE KASTBERG

DOROTHY MARKINKO «
ELAINE WARD-HANNA -
PAMELA CHAMBERLAIN «+

JEAN ANDERSON
CAROLE O’BRIEN GAFFRON
GREG BIRBIL

Editorial Assistants

HELEN OLCHVARY -«
MARGARET KENNEDY «¢

MARY JANE ENGEL -
ELEANOR NESBITT

LEE PETTEE, «
HELEN DeBERRY «+

BETTY FELTON
MARY ANN MEYERS

E. KENT MITCHEL, Vice President and Publisher * JESS L. HADSELL, Assistant Publisher
Journal Editorial Offices: 1270 Avenue of the Americas, New York 20, N.Y., and Independence Square, Philadelphia 5, Pa.

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© 1962 The Curtis Publishing Company in U.S. and Great Britain. All rights reserved. Title reg. U.S. Patent Office
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Vice Pres. and Director of Advertising; I. Huber Ulrich, Sr. Vice Pres. and Director of Cir-

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lhe Company also publishes The Saturday Evening Post, Jack and Jill, Holiday and The American Home,

Printed in U.S.A. —

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OUR READERS
WRITE US

SPARE THE SPOCK AND...
Dear Editors:

When the children quarrel
Or tease or mock,
I have been known

To spank with Spock.
Lois Leurcans, Ithaca, N.Y.
e@ Many a child has Spock to thank for
times when mother didn't spank.—ED.

WHEN PARENTS ARE RIGHT

Dear Editors: When are you going to
write the companion article to “When a
Daughter Marries the Wrong Boy”? The
one entitled, “When Your Daughter
Marries the Wrong Boy and Then Comes
Back Home With a Baby Admitting You
Were Right’?

I was married at eighteen. At nineteen
I was back at my parents’ home with a
baby. Oh, they took me in, but how hard
it was for them, financially and otherwise.

Parents are about 90 percent right,
after all. B.G., Crystal Lake, Ill.

ANYTHING GOES

Dear Editors: From Monday through
I'riday there is a mad rush at our house.
Besides school, there are countless ex-
tracurricular activities—club meetings,
music lessons, dancing lessons. But Sat-
urday we have set aside as do-as-you-
please day. No ultimatums are issued, no
disciplinary measures taken, no duties
or chores are assigned. We stretch, we
sprawl, we yawn. The fast pace calls for
at least one day for taut nerves to un-
wind, one day to regain composure—a
day of complete freedom from everyday
routine.

GERTRUDE PERuIs Kacan, Omaha, Nebr.

ALL WORK AND NO PAY

Dear Editors: | note a reader writes
that a wife should not be treated like a
hired hand. I wish my family treated me
with as much consideration as they treat
employees—regular hours, a salary, a
day off. Don’t misunderstand! I wouldn't
trade places, but facts are facts.

Mrs. M.A., Brooklyn, N.Y.

MORE SOPHISTICATED

Dear Editors: While your magazine
prints fine articles which try to show
wives ways to improve their marriages,
the men’s magazines offer only methods
of escape. Did you ever examine the con-
tents of a typical male magazine? There
will be an article about war. (If the man
can’t be a hero in his home, he can
dream of mighty deeds in battle.) In the
next story he escapes to a South Sea
island, where he is surrounded by beau-
tiful native girls. In another story he will
pick up a blonde in a cocktail lounge—

and so it goes. I cannot recall ever hay-
ing read a story in a man’s magazine
about a man enjoying himself with his
wife. The articles appearing in the Journal
are considerably more sophisticated and
intellectual than the fantasies being read _
by men.

SHERMAN E. Harrincton, Lyons, Wis.

@ Who is that blonde the men keep pick-
ing up?—ED.

“MY CHILD IS AN EPILEPTIC”

Dear Editors: My child is an epileptic.
The word frightens me still. I told my
brother, and he shuddered. The neurolo-
gist warned: “Don't tell anyone—espe-
cially your parents!” I told my parents
anyway. My mother wept. I tried to ex-
plain my child’s illness to a friend—but
the expression on her face was one of
horror.

Why is the word “epilepsy” so horri-
ble? It is simply a term for a person who |
has seizures. Sometimes this disease
means brain injury and deterioration.
Sometimes it is a part of other, more seri-
ous disorders. But there must be other
children, like mine, who have “idiopathic
epilepsy ’—or “cerebral dysrhythmia”’ —
a malfunction of the brain’s electrical
system. My child is bright, attractive and
well co-ordinated. He takes ten pills a
day which keep him free of convulsions.
Other than the medication, his life is like
any other little boy’s. But someday, I
fear, he may have a seizure at school, or
on the street. His secret will be out. For
anyone present at the time, he will never.
be the same child again. The damage my
child will suffer will not occur fron the
seizure, but from the sociological factors
involved. Modern medicine has taken all
the actual horror from epilepsy. But edu-
cation is needed to remove the aura of
terror remaining.

Were and City Withheld

GRACIOUS FIRST LADY

Dear Editors: Within the past year I
have seen the beginning of a change in
the attitude toward housewifery. It is led |
by no less a person than Jacqueline
Kennedy, our President’s wife. Mrs.
Kennedy has said frequently that her
husband’s and children’s happiness and |
welfare are her main concern. She is do-
ing much to bring alive the old-fashioned
concept of a wife and mother who gives
her home charm and beauty, surrounds
its occupants with love and individual
attention, and introduces her children to
a creative and artistic world. +

Mrs. ArtHUR Everest, Mobile, Ala.

NO PRINCE CHARMINGS? i

Dear Editors: When my four-year-old
daughter tells me of her dreams of living
in a castle and marrying a prince, with
visions of herself floating around in
beautiful gowns, I am amused. Were she
to continue to have these fantasies dur-
ing her college years, I ene be very
Sul need

How much more sivnteteias it would
he if young women could, when discuss-
ing their future, talk about real men, real
homes and real children.

Mrs. STEPHEN R. Conen, New York City

via DeGay for Robert Sloan. Shoes, Capezio ‘
f

In or out of the water
: ey I |
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‘ Tampax ng can show, no ohe can know. In fact, you're hardly aware that you're us |
it Ss of w qd nd on Tampax in tiO y lampax. It’s the modern way! 1
: TAM PAX so much a part of ife

By CLIFFORD R. ADAMS, Ph.D., Pennsylvania State University, Department of Psychology
Pe LLL LE LE

MAKING MARRIAGE WORK

° » “Jack and I have been married
nineteen years. He is forty and
I am thirty-nine. I don’t know,
can’t remember, the last time
I accused him of having another woman, and he sim-

is nothing wrong with him.
nagged all the years we have been married. It has got steadily worse year by year. I
When the wife came in for her second conference, she said she had become con-
The husband was even more direct when he came again. ‘‘Last night I asked her if
about ended. She said, ‘I suppose my nagging has ruined our marriage. I told Jack I
“John and I are to be married on June sixteenth. We are
both almost twenty-three years old. I plan to keep on work-
each other very much, and
tions on adjust-
marriage off to a good start can be vital to its happiness.
achieved, these couples will return from the honeymoon assured and optimistic
entered marriage without too many handicaps, and if both are stable, mature people,

he really looked at me.
“T’ye been a good wife to him—I cook his meals
and keep the house clean. More than a year ago, when
Q I spoke sharply to him about not being affectionate,
ply walked out of the house.
“The next day asked him what was wrong, and he
said all he wanted was peace and quiet. I have kept
ad S after him to tell me what is wrong, but he says there
“JT had a good job when I married Jack, and we
never got around to having a family. He doesn’t take
me out anywhere and I think he works late at night just to spite me. When I bawl
him out, he just walks away and ignores me.”
don’t have any desire for her and I long ago lost respect and love for her. I can’t
complain about the way she keeps a house, but she wants to argue about something
all the time. I want to leave her. Maybe some other man could make her happy. I
sure can’t, and I don’t intend to try.”’
vinced her husband couldn’t stand the sight of her. “I have talked to all my friends,
and they sympathize with me. Everybody knows I am right. I have always been
ambitious, and I have done my best to make a success of Jack. Whatever he is I am
responsible for, because he is so easygoing. I'll bet if I threatened to leave him, he
she wanted the car today. She replied, ‘You are so darned smart, you tell me.’ I don’t
have any feeling left for my wife at all, and I never will have again. All I want to do is
end the marriage, and I don’t care whether it is by separation or by divorce.”
The wife feels she still loves her husband, but she recognizes the marriage has
would change, but he said even if I did he couldn’t change his feeling for me.”
This counselor has never seen a more clear-cut example of how nagging has
destroyed love and marriage. The husband cannot absolve himself of some of the
ing, which is all right with him even though his salary could
support us. We have a nice four-room apartment, well fur-
nished (with our parents’ help), and we have no debts.
“Tam not worried about us
® e this helps when
disagreements
QO ArT] arise. Can you
give any sugges-
ing to marriage?”’
This bride-to-be is already displaying insight, one quality favorable to marital
success. She recognizes that she is somewhat independent and that this may create
problems with a quick-tempered man. Also, she seems aware of the fact that getting
The honeymoon initiates marital adjustment. No courtship has the closeness and
intimacy of the honeymoon. The honeymoon should give a couple a deeper sense of
security, belongingness and unity. It is in this setting that they normally take the
most significant steps in their physical relationship. For nearly half of the couples,
about the future. Of the remaining brides, a majority will feel disappointed and to
some extent frustrated. Perhaps one bride in five will be disillusioned and not at all
sure that she has married the right man.
Whatever their reactions, nearly all the couples will return from the honeymoon
the chances are good that they will forge ahead in making their marriage successful.
Sexual adjustment, though neither the central nor the most important factor in
happiness, cannot be ignored. In no area of marriage are acceptance and co-operation
more crucial. Differences in sex desire and intensity are common, but neither mate

he said he hadn’t been in love with me fora long time.

Jack agreed to talk matters over. Briefly, this is what he said: ‘My wife has
wouldn’t be so sure of himself.”’

e not being happy, but I do want

us to get started right. I am on

( ; the stubborn side and John has

a quick temper. But we love

this interlude will be pleasant and enjoyable. Even if complete harmony is not

determined to make the best of the situation. If their love is genuine, if they have

should impose his or her standards upon the other. With patience and accommoda-

tion, nearly two thirds of the newly married will have developed satisfactory adjust-
ment within the first year of marriage.

Definition of respective roles will not come overnight. Conflict is almost inevitable
if either mate has to fit into a role that was never anticipated. Even though a bride
and groom have similar values, each may jockey for position and try to maneuver
the other mate into a role that has been conceived for him or her. In a sense, the

definition of roles involves a power struggle

responsibility for the rupture. He is a mild person and abhors disagreements of all
kinds. If he had asserted himself early in the marriage, the outcome might have
been different.

Nagging is probably the most serious personality grievance that husbands have
against their wives. Some 15 percent of husbands cite it as the most objectionable
attribute of their mates, and some 7 percent of wives confess that they are addicted
to it. Even in our research group of happy marriages, 3 percent of husbands say that
their major complaint is their wives’ nagging, and 22 percent of our unhappy hus-
bands indict their spouses on this count. When husbands are asked to define nag-
ging, they explain it as habitual or persistent scolding, prodding and faultfinding.

Habits of criticizing and complaining are not confined to women, for there are
some men who are also naggers. The tendency to nag is present in an individual be-
fore marriage. Persons who lack self-confidence are frequently dissatisfied with their
environment, expect more from their mates than the husband or wife is willing or
able to give. The nagger is often more competitive than co-operative.

If the nagger is not able to dominate her husband completely, she relieves her
tension by needling him. If he bows to her immediate demands, she shortly discovers
another defect on which to base her criticism. Sometimes a wife recognizes that st e is
a nagger, but the habit is too ingrained for her to break it.

Although husbands may have faults, nagging will not correct them. The nagging
wife is determined to reform her husband, and this is deadly, for the first requisite of
a happy marriage is the ability of husband and wife to accept each other.

Of all the tactics that a wife uses to influence her husband, nagging is the most
futile as well as the most subversive. If the husband has major faults, his wife’s
criticisms afford him another rationalization and defense for his behavior. If her nag-
ging has little justification, sooner or later he loses his respect and love for her. If he
continues to live with her, he makes existence more tolerable by ignoring her as much
as circumstances permit.

Consciously or unconsciously, he views her nagging as a rejection of him (which it
usually is).' Ultimately he loses his physical interest in her and it is this fact that
usually brings the wife to the counselor.

Of all the problems that come to the counselor, none has any graver prognosis.
Even though the husband may continue to live with his wife, there is little hope for
happiness. Many of the divorces that come twenty or so years after marriage have
their genesis in nagging. By that time the children are through high school, and the
nagged husband or wife feels no longer bound to a marriage which is an empty shell.

Why not take stock of your marriage? If your husband avoids talking to you, if he
spends little time with you, and if he no longer shows much physical interest in you,
ask yourself if you are nagging him. If you are, you may well lose him unless he is a
very dependent or submissive person.

In the early months of marriage, when love is at its height, each spouse is more
generous and tolerant. This is the time for role definition, for assignment of responsi-
bilities, and for working out principles governing their separate and shared activities,
Until their personal values and standards can be reconciled, mutual adjustment in
any area of marriage is virtually impossible.

Management of money often imposes an acute problem. Aside from adequacy of
income, conflict most often arises when a couple is unable to equal or exceed the
standard of living that fits the status expected or demanded by either or both mates,
If the distance between what they can afford and what one of them desires is great,
quarrels and bitterness are the outcome. The husband may blame his wife’s ex-
travagance (particularly if any of his wants are being denied), or she may blame him
for earning too little money.

When a wife works, the situation can be just as unhappy, particularly if she re-
gards her earnings as hers alone. The only solution may be for the wife, after deduct-
ing from her net income only those expenses (transportation, lunches and clothing)
absolutely requisite to holding her job, to place the rest of her earnings in a joint
account with her husband’s income. It should also be pointed out that the husband
whose wife works with his approval is expected to share far more of the housework
than would be the case if she did not work.

Social adjustment is often vexing. Before marriage, the social activities of a couple
(and most of their friends) were among single people. Each had his or her own friends
and relatives and, in general and within reason, could pursue many activities and
recreations more or less independently. Marriage narrows individual freedom. This
does not mean that all outside contacts have to be mutual, but most of their social
interests should be built around joint friends and activities.

In-law relationships can be troublesome. Difficulties with relatives beset one fourth
to one third of young marriages. For most, time is required to effect the transition
from old established family patterns to an immature but developing new family
pattern. é

If the husband or wife is insecure, he or she may feel neglected or slighted if the
in-laws are overattentive or solicitous to the mate. Even worse is the competition
that a bride may experience if her husband’s mother won’t let him go. Or a husband
may be very resentful if his wife disregards his advice and follows the reeommenda-
tions of her mother.

Ignoring problems is the most serious mistake that newlyweds make. Too many cou-
ples have the philosophy that, given enough time, almost any problem will clear up.
That this is not so is definitely proved by the finding that the highest rates of divorce
are in the second and third years of marriage, and that half of all divorces have been
granted before the sixth wedding anniversary rolls around. No marriage (least of all
the new one) is free from problems. Any ignored or unsolved problem weakens the
stability of marriage.

Instead of concentrating on the rights and privileges (“‘what is owed to me’’) of
marriage, each husband and wife should think of the responsibilities and opportuni-
ties (“what I can give’) that marriage confers. With love, goodwill, communication
and compromise, most couples can achieve a happy marriage.

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BY JOYCE LUBOLD

There is one golden secret of happy marriage that | have never seen men-
tioned by the experts. | am going to tell it to you. Ready? Here it is: HUS-
BANDS SOMETIMES NEED TO GET SICK.

Not really sick. What | mean is, every man needs a healthy day sick in
bed once in a while, to catch his breath and get himself organized. Racing
cars go to the pits; cornfields have fallow years; women have crying jags;
but men—to whom all these pleasures are denied—must have, every once
in a while, a day when everything stops. And just as the mechanic listens
for the racing car’s cough, as the farmer studies the tired soil, so will the
wise wife learn to recognize the telltale signs that such a day has come.

This is the way it will begin:

Some ordinary morning your husband, the picture of health as far as
anyone can tell, will complain casually of vague discomforts in odd parts
of his body. His upper arm may suddenly have a ‘‘funny kind of stiff feel-
ing; not really an ache exactly.’’ Or his stomach may develop the ‘‘queer-
est kind of fading-away sensation.’’ Symptoms will float around unfocused
and unfirm for a few days. But the wise wife knows: it’s getting to be that
time again. She will not be surprised when one day the telephone rings and
the man she loves above all others speaks weakly from the other end:

“Honey? | don’t feel so good.”’

Do not ask what’s the matter. He doesn’t know. Simply say, ‘‘l know,
dear. 1 didn't think you looked at all well this morning.”’

“It’s m: stomach. | think.’’

“You’ve probably got a touch of poisoning,’’ you will say. ‘‘Don’t try to
fight it, you'll only get worse.”’

‘‘Maybe you're right. | hate to lose any time here at work, though ——’’

Interrupt him. He has a strong conscience—all men have—but it
shouldn't be allowed to trouble him now.

“The quicker you get well, the quicker you'll get back to work,”’ tell him.
“I'll drive down now and pick you up.’’ (Wives of commuting husbands
must change the wording here and promise to meet the ‘‘very next train.”
Driving all the way into the city to pick him up would be overdoing it and
might scare him into calling the whole thing off.)

Once you get him home you must find out whether maybe this time he
really is sick. Watch closely as he comes into the house. If he makes every
effort to walk briskly and to smile reassuringly at you, call the doctor im-
mediately; he is truly sick. But if he hangs limply on the doorjamb and
stares at you dully, relax. This is a healthy man who needs a day when
everything stops. Smile worriedly back at him, and get busy.

Clean sheets on the bed first, then clean pajamas for him. This is no
time to worry about laundry costs. You may even want to put an extra
clean sheet on top of the blankets to lend the room an air of hospital purity.

Here, by the way, is another point at which you may differentiate be-
tween real call-the-doctor sickness and this other kind. If he sits on a
bedroom chair in his business clothes, making no effort to take off his
shoes, and saying testily, ‘‘Don’t fuss so. I’ll be all right in an hour or so’—
take his temperature and start worrying. But if, instead, he moves weakly
toward the clean pajamas and the beckoning bed, and speaks gently and
a littie sadly if at all—just leave the thermometer in its case. The germ he’s
got doesn’t cause fever.

Leave him now and go to the kitchen.

Here you will have decisions to make. Some men relish unappetizing
things at a time like this: milk toast, say, served tepid and mushy. Others

nball. Whatever you bring, bring it lovingly, tenderly.

Don’t be startled if, on

react better to a |
entering the sickroom, all you can see is a circle

of blue pajama bottom rearing up from the closet.

“| thought | ought to have my slippers by the side of the bed,”’ he will
say reproachfully.

“Oh, darling, of course!’’ you say as you look at the wasted form. (Well,
he isn’t wasted much yet, but it’s strange how appealing he looks. In his
blue pajamas. Slippers in hand.) ‘‘Now get back in bed,”’ you say, guiding
him gently, an arm at his elbow. ‘‘Best thing for you is rest.”’

He will get in bed and stretch gloriously, bone-crackingly, with a great
healthy moan of contentment. Looking up wanly at you he will say, “‘l
think maybe | could take a little sleep.’’ Agree, smiling with love, and tip-
toe out. But before he drops off, make a phone call to a friend in which
you report, loudly, that ‘‘George is home because he feels so terrible.”’
Nothing so heartens the patient as hearing his condition described as
“terrible.”’ Don’t neglect this. It is important.

After an hour or so, tiptoe back to his doorway. He will be awake now, _
looking dreamily into space. Do not ask, ‘‘What are you thinking about?”
He isn’t thinking. It’s wonderful. Tiptoe away again.

Around lunchtime return and ask if a little soup would taste good.

“Might,’’ he will say bravely. ‘‘Might help to settle the old stomach.’

Nod soberly. Get it for him. Put it on a tray and put the tray on his lap.
Go away. This is not the day for wifely chatter. He wants, remember, to
have a day when everything stops. And one of the things he wants to have
stop is... you've guessed it. So keep quiet.

Later on, about three or four in the afternoon, go back again. This time
you may find him leaning awkwardly on one elbow, his book sliding away
down the side of the pillow he has jammed up to hold it, his free arm waving
aimlessly in a misdirected effort to scratch his back.

“Darling, you iook so uncomfortable.’

“lam. This bed was never made for reading. The light’s no good any-
way.’’ (He’s coming back!)

“Is there anything—just anything—I can do for you?”’

“No. At least . . . well—I hate to bother you.’’ Go to him immediately.
Without a word. This is a crisis. He can get well now, and rejoin the world,
or he can get good and sick.

‘Wouldn't you like me to rub your back?”

“Well, if you could just—the back of my neck ——”’ (Now of course yours
may not be the kind of husband who likes back rubs. Some don’t. But if
they don’t then they’ll like hot foot baths, or cold cloths on their fore-
heads. Whatever it is, do it now.)

He lies quietly, pajamas crisp against the clean sheets. He looks so
comfortable. You, on the other hand, suddenly feel extremely tired! As
you rub his back that small pain in your shoulder that you've felt on and
off for several days seems to sharpen. His skin feels so cool beneath your
fingers, you wonder if maybe you could have a temperature.

But this is his day, remember, and so bravely, selflessly, rub.on, and
suddenly, abruptly, your husband will sit upright.

“Is there any of that chocolate cake left, honey?”’ he will demand. ‘'l
really could use a slice. And a big glass of cold cider.”’

Well. He’s all better. And so, you find, are you! The particular sickness
he’s had is often, for couples who are close, extremely contagious, and
you were beginning, for a moment, to get a touch of it yourself. But now
he’s had his day when everything stopped, and you’ve had your day of
taking care of him. It’s been the best thing in the world for both of you.

Women weep or dye their hair. Boys and dogs curl up in small dark cor-
ners where no one knows where they are. Cats prowl alone in dark woods.
And men get to feeling they’re feeling sick. Remember to love them then.

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Big glass walls at the back of the house
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Children's rooms have shoji screens open-
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These rooms can be enlarged as children
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ompac
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BY JOHN BRENNEMAN
Architectural Editor

This is a remarkable house in several
ways:

It is compact: 1876 square feet plus
basement.

It has a great deal of living space. (Over
half its total area.)

The study is actually the adults’ living
room. Located at the front of the house,
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Children have a place to play—their own
private living room that need not be
cleaned up when guests come. There is
natural separation between this area and
the parents’ end of the house.

Careful planning makes the children’s
individual bedrooms quite adequate, with
room for storage, work and closet space.

The parents’ room at the other end of the
house has real privacy and noise insula-
tion. Its well-planned bath has separate
lavatory and tub/toilet rooms.

The kitchen has lots of counter space;
and the adjacent laundry serves as over-
flow work area for entertaining. It is very
frankly a part of the huge dining/family
room, which makes it especially pleasant
and comfortable.

Japanese-design features are adapted to
be practical for Western-type living. Es-
pecially desirable are the sliding screens
to include or exclude the outdoors at will.

The basement gives extra work and stor-
age space.

The quiet writing desk, out of the kitchen,
can be used anytime, and is a good place
for a telephone.

ARCHITECT: STEPHENL. MAC DONALD,A.1.A.

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LADIES’ HOME JOUR!

THERE’S A MAN IN THE HOUSE

BY HARLAN MILLER ‘

So far, no outdoor-café tables in our town.
Maybe the American version belongs indoors
at the supermarkets. Where can you get a
more splendid eyeful of the daily promenade?

All the bridge problems seem aimed at players
who want to bid game on a four-card suit, or
a slam every other hand. Me, I’m content to
make 60 on game.

Finally we counted the words: we found our
son’s letter had 190 words in a spacious scrawl
on three sheets of large paper while our
daughter wrote 192 on a postcard.

I’ve vowed to plant five or ten trees around
our place within the next twelve months.
Next to grandchildren, this is perhaps the
surest kind of immortality.

Our coffee break disagrees on whether a man
should play golf with his wife. I’ll experiment
with nine holes a week with my Dream Girl
and see how it affects my score.

I succumbed to those brave-new-world mod-
ern desks for a while, but I’m again convinced
the best desk of all is the rolltop with 68
pigeonholes I inherited from my father-in-
law.

Our Air Force son doesn’t come right out and
say so, yet I gather our armed forces are
blessed with thousands of intrepid and irre-
sistible men like Shepard and Glenn.

I predict that the next generation will go a
step further than their dads and moms who
swerved toward smaller cars: they’ll go in
more and more for walking and cycling, melt
the traffic jam.

“Sure, like it says here, let’s fly the flag on
Mother’s Day!” agrees Peter Comfort, paint-
ing the iron love seat. ““But why omit Father’s
Day? On his good days he’s in a class with
mothers-in-law.”

We were debating where to go for Sunday
dinner when our neighbors the Lowes sent us
a casserole of surplus homemade ravioli.
Things like that restore your faith in mankind
and civilization, eh?

A lover of handsome stamps, my Dream Girl
can’t decide which is prettiest, the Nurse
stamp or the Arizona or the Man in Space.
‘“‘Anyhow,”’ she tells me, “‘these are as pretty
as European stamps.”’

With a basketball goal, a baseball glove and
a dozen plastic golf balls, a man can get his
exercise in his backyard.

What every wife should learn is that almost
anything to eat she can serve on rice o

mashed potatoes will strike her husband as alj

gourmet’s delight.

If our grass grew in the fertilized patches as
it does in the cracks of our concrete tennis

court, we’d have the finest lawn in town.}

An inveterate gambler at our coffee break|

wants to bet $100 that J.F.K. and Jackie will}
have a total of five children before they leave}
the White House. (I wager it’ll be only four. )f¥

A devoted son-in-law in the next village is
sending his wife’s parents to Europe as a gift

for their sixtieth birthdays. Usually in our

region it happens the other way.

. . When our Air Force daughter-in-law

makes her small sons gray flannel suits that’d}

cost $65 on Madison Avenue.

. . - Or seven-year-old Patrick comes up with}
a new spelling, “‘cemustree,” in a thank-you}

note,

... And our young captain remembers 1732)
as G.W.’s birth year, because it’s like the}

square root of 3,

... Or Scott’s first haircut at seven months}

reveals his ears and eyes,

.. . And my Lady Love struggles with the |

family arithmetic at income-tax time,
Then this ex-bachelor concedes that wedloc
has a bigger climax on every page.

“Outside of refusing to let me grow old
gracefully, she hasn’t been a bad wife.”

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Mothers and fathers come to the Child
Study Center of Philadelphia for many
reasons. Mr. and Mrs. Tom Chandler
came because they were the parents of
| Sot the neighborhood bad boy.

B& Lm A It was a role that Ruth Chandler, an

pet,

} intensely retiring woman, was finding
4 harder and harder to bear. Larry was
\\ i 1 i yD only eight, but he had become a progres-

: Y Aus’ sively more formidable problem. ‘‘l was
getting phone calls. Constantly. The

minute | picked up the phone and heard

some mother’s angry voice saying ‘Mrs.
Chandler!’ my heart sank. Maybe she’d

tell me how Larry, for no reason at all,

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had marched across her lawn, leaned
into her baby’s playpen and cuffed the
baby. Ten minutes later the doorbell
would ring, and there would be a little
girl with tears in her eyes and a cut on
her lip. She’d say, ‘Your little boy pushed
me on the playground.’

“When I’d ask Larry why he had done
these things, he’d say, ‘I don’t know.’ He
might be trembling or crying, but that
was all he could tell me: ‘I don’t know.’”’

Mr. and Mrs. Chandler’s hurt was par-
ticularly keen because so much of their
affection was wrapped up in Larry. Mr.
Chandler had done well in a plastics
company, and their marriage had been a
contented one except for the absence of
children. Larry’s arrival, after they had
almost given up hope, had delighted
them. He had a bad start with a pre-
mature birth and pneumonia, and was
hardly home from the hospital when he
developed infant diarrhea and had an-
other desperate time of it. But when he
recovered his parents plunged into the
job of making it up to him. “‘l was crazy
f | about that boy,’’ says his father. ‘‘l used
~— - a y to hang over his crib just for the pleasure

of it. | couldn’t bring just one plastic toy
home from the office; I’d have to bring a
bagful.’’ His mother says, ‘‘We gave him
all the love and affection a child should
have—maybe more.”’

The Chandlers, a quiet couple nearing
Be oe a their forties together, were determined
| Bt ¢ % to devote their lives to raising the son
~ they were so glad to have. Their voices

become emotional as they recount how
CONTINUED ON PAGE 19

By NEAL GILKYSON STUART “It seemed to us that Larry was always an angry child.”’

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LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL} My

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| NTINUED FROM PAGE 14

2ir accustomed world turned upside down
to a nightmare.

It seems to me,” says Mrs. Chandler
iserably, “that Larry was a/ways an angry

Mr. Chandler recalls that “at ten months he
us a good, happy baby. But between his first
md second year he became very aggressive.
’ the time he could play in the yard his local
outation began.”

mAs he grew older things became worse.
hen he was six he hit a little boy on the head
th a bicycle pump; it took ten stitches to
»se the wound. At seven he pushed a boy off
2curb into the path of a truck. The boy was
atched to safety in time, but school and
ighborhood reverberated with the scandal.
lls began to come from school when Larry
ered kindergarten, and they mounted in
lume until sometimes they reached the rate
two a week. The misdemeanor was always
e same. Larry did not lie or steal; he was
ivays neat and clean; he was the best reader
his class, and he could flash a charming
ile when he chose. He shared his posses-
ns eagerly with any child who would play
h him. But sooner or later—‘‘daily,” stresses
s. Chandler—he would turn on a young-
r, usually one smaller than himself, with
governable fury.

t home Larry was affectionate and docile,
hough he tended to chatter maddeningly.
also would ask several times a day, “Do
like me?” His father’s invariable stanch
bly was, “I don’t like you, I /ove you.”

he Chandlers did not know how to deal
h him. They were a mild couple themselves.
s. Chandler was given to prefacing any
sitive statement with an apologetic, “You'll
nk I’m silly.’ Her preferred punishment
s to “reason” with Larry (“Don’t you want
have friends?”’) and keep him indoors. She
s frightened of making him “insecure,” and
ieved it was important to stick to cool dis-
line rather than show anger.

But plain, helpless, corrosive anger swelled
il it seized the family. “The day Larry hit
boy with the bicycle pump, I was furious,”
s Mrs. Chandler. “His teacher had just
ephoned that morning, besides. I grabbed
rry and hit him with the first thing I could
, a shoe. There were many, many times
e that when I completely lost my temper.
ce I was so aggravated I choked him. I
Id have killed him.”

r. Chandler, who bore less of the daily
rden, was slower to break down. He told
wife Larry was “all boy.’’ But living with
ry was sometimes more than nerves could
Mure. Mr. Chandler soon found he was
bDable of smacking Larry across the mouth
yelling a savage “Shut up!” before
rry’s incessant talking.

They were so bewildered and helpless that
y soon turned on each othér. Neither can
nember a single serious disagreement before
try was born. Their affection was such that
-s. Chandler will say impulsively, “I only
pe Larfy turns into as fine a man as my
sband!’’ But Larry’s problems shredded
sir relationship into tatters.

“All our fights were about Larry,” says Mr.
andler, “and we were bickering a// the time.
z0t so she’d be telling him one thing—put on
galoshes for school—and I'd be telling him
ver mind, go to school without them. She’d
going nuts during the day, and I’d come
me and find her in tears. It got so I hated to
e home. I'd get within a few blocks of the
se and I’d think how much I hated it. It
so we actually hated Larry. How can you
e your own child so much, and hate him at
same time? All I can say is, it happens.
as a nightmare.”

om the first, they longed for help. They
re sure a private psychiatrist was beyond
m. Mrs. Chandler anxiously confided
prything to Larry’s pediatrician, but he
ially pooh-poohed her stories. ‘‘Nothing
ious,” he said. ““He’ll outgrow it.”

arry didn’t outgrow it; he got worse. She
s told crisply by“Larry’s school principal
it he was a spoiled child in need of disci-
ne. This advice impressed her, although she
d noticed that after spankings he tended to

become worse than ever. Trying to do right,
she bore down on long-drawn-out punish-
ments. She kept him indoors for weeks at a
time. She also tried earnestly to teach him the
seriousness of his crimes. When he would ask,
“Are you angry at me?” she would reply
patiently, ““No, I am not angry, but this is
why I am irritated with you,” and tell him.

She consulted a visiting school psychologist.
He found she was still bathing Larry, now a
big boy of eight, and even tying his shoes. He
advised her that she was probably too close to
Larry; she should try to free him from the
bonds of maternal affection.

This was the first clue she had been given
as to why Larry might be so troubled, and
she tried hard to follow the psychologist’s ad-
vice. She added withdrawal of affection to the
long punishments. Every punishment now
meant that a period of stern disapproval
settled over the household.

ss
The trouble was that nothing worked—none
of it. Not the spankings nor the punishments
nor the lectures nor the frosty atmosphere nor
being commanded to tie his own shoes. Larry
would go out the door to school in the morn-
ings, burdened with admonishments from
his mother, and by recess would find cause to
sock a fellow citizen. The wrath of parents,
teachers and school officials would fall once
more on shy, anxious, hurt and baffled Mrs.
Chandler’s head.

One day she received a new summons to the
principal’s office. Larry had taken a pair of
scissors and slashed the schoolbooks belong-
ing to his enemy of the morning. Destruction
of property had not previously been Larry’s
bent, and the school principal spoke to Mrs.
Chandler with new exasperation. He implied
that making a small boy behave was a simple
matter for responsible parents; Mr. and Mrs.
Chandler would have to mend their ways,
assume their parental duties, and discipline
Larry at home, starting now.

Mrs. Chandler has a conviction that he
thought of her as “‘one of those bridge-playing
mothers,’ but so deep was her reluctance to
confide her emotions to a relative stranger
that she took all this in meek silence. She said
nothing of her own burden of misery and
concern, and made her lonely way home. “‘I
cried all the way. I had no one to turn to.
Everybody in the world was mad at Larry, he
was getting worse, and I didn’t know what I
was going to do.”

It was only a few days later, when she was
reading the back pages of the paper, that the
words “Child Study Center” caught her eye.
That a place with such a name existed in her
own nearby city was of intense interest. “It
was the word ‘study’ that hit me. That was
what I wanted for Larry, to have him studied.”

The Child Study Center of Philadelphia is a
busy place. It is an arm of the Institute of
Pennsylvania Hospital, a research center that
studies both normal and disturbed children,
and its large specialized staff offers close
therapy to some 200 families a year. When
Mrs. Chandler telephoned that June day, she
was told that its lists were already filled, the
center closed during August, and perhaps she
had better wait until next fall. With a quaver
in her voice, Mrs. Chandler asked if she
could talk to someone earlier, “just so I can
hold on over the summer.”

She was talking to Mr. Goetz Mayer,
senior psychiatric social worker. “What is
your problem?” he asked gently.

Mrs. Chandler’s heart sank. How many
times had she been told by Larry’s pediatri-
cian, “It’s nothing serious!”

She needn’t have worried. In the words of
Dr. Harry G. Gianakon, director of the center,
“In general, we accept any family’s statement
that they have a problem. Problems cause
pain, and anyone who calls a social agency
for help has usually been in severe pain for a
long time. They know better than we that the
pain—and the problem behind it—is real.”

Mr. Mayer called back that afternoon to
tell Mrs. Chandler that he had cleared an
appointment for her.

At that first visit, which the center calls its
“application interview,” Mr. Mayer told Mrs.
Chandler about the Child Study Center. Its
help is not a matter of “rules” for raising

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children which can be handed to parents in
two or three visits. Nor can it magically get
a child to “behave” by treating him alone.
Serious behavior problems almost invariably
come from pressures locked inside members
of the family, therefore the entire family
would be expected to come in regularly.
Easing the pressures might be a matter of
years. Mrs. Chandler admits now that
“when he mentioned ‘years,’ my heart sank.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Mayer was making some
evaluations of his own. Of the 200 cases the
center starts each year, some drop away, some
are referred to other agencies, and some re-
main stubbornly unimproved, but about two
thirds are eventually dismissed “improved,”
and staff members have become skilled at
recognizing families they can help. He en-
couraged Mrs. Chandler to talk freely. She
did so, with shyness at first, but with increas-
ing confidence, candor and insight. She un-
derstood that more than “just Larry” might
be involved, that she and her husband might
have to explore within themselves as well. And
there was no doubt about her eagerness to co-
operate. After she had left, Mr. Mayer wrote
a report—the first of what was to be a fat
dossier. He noted, ‘There is a rather gentle
quality about this woman.” His conclusion:
““A good prospect for therapy.”

Te center is nothing if not thorough. Mr.
and Mrs. Chandler had an “application inter-
view” together. Larry and his mother each had
two “diagnostic interviews,” his father one.
Larry was given a battery of tests. He raced
through most of them, but of his attempt to
paint a house the doctor wrote, “It was
pathetic to see the mess that was made by this
boy’s smearing.”’ The center exchanged letters
with Larry’s school, a camp he had attended
and his family doctor.

At the end of all this, Dr. Gianakon and the
four members of the center staff who had had
something to do with the Chandlers to date
(it was fall by now) met for a planning session.
There was no doubt in their minds that a prob-
lem existed. In spite of all the previous floun-
derings, nobody had been wholly wrong. The
principal had been right in his guess that Larry
needed discipline; the school psychologist in
pointing out Mrs. Chandler’s close attach-
ment to her son. Yet lightly telling his parents
to correct these matters was like telling the sea
to stop beating on the beach; the forces behind
them ran too deep. The staff believed that
Larry was tremendously frightened by his
domination over his devoted parents. He held
in the palm of his hand almost the entire
emotional content of their lives; they lived,
breathed and worried about Larry almost every
moment of every day. This was too great a
burden for an eight-year-old. During one visit
at the center Larry had played with an electric
train, but he had turned in panic to the ther-
apist standing beside him. “It has too many
switches! I don’t know which to turn! I don’t
know how to turn it off!’ So he didn’t know
how to turn off his turbulent emotions.

Larry needed “help to control his im-
pulses.” This could best be done by helping
his parents build a new self-confidence so that
they could provide “firmly grounded, con-
sistent direction from above.” Yet the staff
knew how profoundly Mrs. Chandler mis-
trusted her own angers—even her own judg-
ment. At the end of their joint report they
wrote, “Prognosis: guarded.”” They under-
estimated Mrs. Chandler’s quiet courage.

Now the “treatment sessions” for all three
members of the family went into full swing.
Larry and Mrs. Chandler had separate ses-
sions once a week, Mr. Chandler one every
other week. In all, Larry had thirty treatment
sessions with Dr. Eli Harmon, young, barrel-
chested child psychiatrist on the staff. As is
customary at the center, Mr. and Mrs. Chand-
ler were not treated by a psychiatrist but by
a psychiatric social worker, warmly attractive
Mrs. Nancy Autilio. Mrs. Autilio met with
Mrs. Chandler twenty-six times, with Mr.
Chandler thirteen times, and with them both
together twice. Thirteen months after Mrs.
Chandler’s first phone call, the family were
eager to try things on their own, and the
center agreed. It was understood that if
trouble started to pile up again, they were to
get in touch with the center at once. By then,

Mrs. Chandler and Mrs. Autilio were such fast
friends that Mrs. Chandler wouldn’t have
hesitated. A year and a half have now gone by,
and Mrs. Chandler has telephoned once or
twice to chat—and to report that everything
was fine. As Mrs. Chandler puts it now, “It’s
a real Before and After story.”

How was this small miracle accomplished?
The oldest therapy in the world is talk; like
many, many people, neither of the Chandlers
had ever had anyone take the pains to listen
to their inmost voices. Like all human beings,
they had many needs and angers and hurts
and wishes; but with no one to listen to them,
they had not articulated them even to them-
selves. Emotions simmered below the surface.
When one of them reared up—such as ex-
treme anger at Larry—they pushed it shame-
facedly down again; such things were not
“‘supposed”’ to be. In one session, in speaking
of Larry’s incessant talking, Mrs. Chandler
said impulsively, “I want someone to listen to
me.” She was astonished when Mrs. Autilio
pointed out the implications. She had always
made herself such a quiet woman!

At the start Mr. and Mrs. Chandler both
tended to talk about Larry. By their fifth
sessions each had moved on, and they were
talking about themselves. Mr. Chandler looks
wise and secretive (he knows his confidences
are in locked files, and that Mrs. Autilio will
never give him away), and says, “We talked
about the things going on in this house—and
how I felt about them.”

Mrs. Chandler says, “Mrs. Autilio sort of
introduced me to myself. It was an education!”
It was one she enjoyed thoroughly. “It was
like talking to a good friend. We talked about
everything in the world—even cats. Poor Mrs.

The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord.

PROVERBS XX: 27

Autilio! I enjoyed it so much I always over-
stayed the hour by about fifteen minutes.”
Mrs. Autilio’s primary role was listener,
but always as a responsive, encouraging per-
son. Again and again she reassured Mrs.
Chandler that her fears and angers about
Larry, his teachers, the neighbors, her hus-
band were wholly natural. When Mrs.
Chandler told her of her guilt about choking
Larry, Mrs. Autilio said quietly, “But you
knew when to stop, didn’t you?” They dis-
cussed how small, suppressed angers can build
up into one big anger that is sometimes spoken
of as “murderous.” The feeling that we want
to “kill” someone simply means we have a
violent anger that we don’t know what to do
with. In the modest, peace-loving Chandler
household, where small irritations were po-
litely suppressed, such angers had been sweep-
ing both Larry and Mrs. Chandler (and Mr.
Chandler, too, at times) for years. The milder
and less actually murderous you are, the more
frightening such feelings can seem, and Mrs.
Chandler was so badly frightened by hers that
she was literally afraid to learn to drivea car, for
fear she “might kill someone—maybea child.”
Mrs. Chandler says, ““Mrs. Autilio did so
much for me—I don’t know if I can explain
it. She made us see that Tom and I had hidden
our feelings. For example, we had always
waited until Larry went to bed before we ar-
gued about anything. She helped us see that
he’d picked up the idea of sitting on his feel-
ings at home—but as soon as he got out the
door they'd explode. Now Tom and I have
our arguments right out, or I blow my top in
the first place, and it’s made all the difference.
After things began to change, Larry would
say, “Aren’t you still mad at me for yesterday ?’
And Id say, ‘No, that was yesterday. I got
mad then. Now I’m not mad anymore.’”’
Mrs. Autilio also started them listening to
Larry’s inner voice. She suggested to Mr.
Chandler that instead of trying nor to listen to
Larry talk, he give Larry his full attention for
five or ten minutes, answer all questions, then
say, “That’s enough.”’ She suggested that Mrs.
Chandler sit on Larry’s bed for five minutes
or so at bedtime and ask him about his day.
“Larry liked this. He began telling me about
school, his teacher, and so forth. All Mrs.

LADIES' HOME JOURN

Autilio’s suggestions worked. Larry has ¢
his talking in half—although he could s
talk the ears off a brass monkey. And
doesn’t say ‘I don’t know’ anymore. Now
tells me his side. He knows I'll listen.”

Children can rarely give a coherent accoue
of how they feel. So Larry’s therapy
different. While Larry and Dr. Harm
pitched horseshoes together, or while Large
chattered away, Dr. Harmon was busy “‘trar
lating,’ as he puts it, Larry’s words a
deeds, gathering abundant evidence of
troubled state of mind. When Larry
arrived, he told his interviewer remorseless§
“If somebody hits me, I hit him. If somebo
hurts me, I hurt him.”’ He did not know, hii
self, how severely frightened he was. But so’
he began to reveal himself as a worried Gai
At one session, far along in therapy, h
called for Dr. Harmon several horrible nig
mares. They summarized all his fears that h
grown-ups were watching him, aware of
every thought, ready to pounce with retrik
tion. At the next session he walked into I
Harmon’s office and flew at him like a sm
whirlwind, shouting, “Ill kill you! I'll
you!” Dr. Harmon held Larry off and shou
tight back, ““Use words to tell me, don’t 4
it out!”

Dr. Harmon says now, “This was the t
ing point.’ When the attack was over, La
discovered that Dr. Harmon had not of
survived intact, but was still his friend; tha
small boy could think murder without
coming a murderer. His fear and fury w
exposed, yet neither Dr. Harmon nor thund
clap had struck him down; the world ro
right along. Dr. Harmon says, “When
admit our anger, we can not only direc
more realistically, it is actually reduced.”

The world rolled right along, but chan
had taken place. Midway through the s
sions with Mrs. Chandler, Mrs. Autilio wr
in her notes, “Mother has gained a great d
in self-confidence and courage.” Further no
tell the story of Mrs. Chandler’s discover
herself as a person. ““Mother says laughin
that she is living down her reputation a
doormat.” . . . “Mother met her most criti
neighbor and stood her ground. She left
neighbor ‘gasping,’ to mother’s delight 4
great sense of power.” . . . “Mother was
trigued at the thought of answering Lar
“You are to do it because I say so.’ She
thought you always had to reason with
child.”

Mrs. Chandler began to bloom right un
the eyes of the center, to the delight of eve
one there. When she had first arrived,
waiting-room procedure had been to u
a newspaper before her face and remain
den behind it. The newspaper gradu
lowered, then disappeared. She began
make friends with receptionist and clerk.
had her hair restyled. She began to talk
taking driving lessons. By the time |
Chandlers finished at the center, Mrs. Aut}
summarized her gains as “‘tremendous.””

Now, a year and a half later, the gains h
held. This does not surprise the center st!
for just as angers and frustrations can spiri
family downward into misery, so confide
and success can spiral them upward. M
Chandler says, “It was amazing how Le
began to change when we began to chang¢|
got so I could tell from my own mood in
morning whether it was going to be a g¢
day for him. It was a funny thing: as [|
surer of myself, and surer I could handle bj
he even began to /ook different to me—m)]
like a little boy. And oh, the relief to find 't]
he really was a perfectly normal little boy)
good little boy. Our doorbell never rings a
more with complaints. And Larry is so m
happier. One day a little girl told him, ‘Yo!
a good boy now.’ Larry was so pleased he 1
us about it five times.”

Mrs. Chandler looks like a poised and ha
woman as she laughs serenely. “I date
change as a family from the day Larry st
his tongue out at me. It wasn’t that this we
have been such a terrible crime in the.
days—just that it wouldn’t have happe
The atmosphere wasn’t right for it. But w
he did stick it out, I said, ‘All right, be cre
Then we both laughed.” ]

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From Melo You

By MARCELENE COX

™ To every June bride: Cooking
is a profession—of love. Sunday
breakfast is a perfect time to say
“| love you”’ with fresh cinnamon
rolls, refrigerated, done in a twin-
kling! The glossy white icing is in-
cluded in the same package, ready
to spread when the rolls come
spicy hot from the oven!

@ But Monday brings you back to
a realistic look at the scales. Want
to lose a few more ounces before
“‘bathing-suit days’’ begin? Here’s
a thought for dinnertime: Trim all
excess fat from a thick, succulent
lamb chop. Be ruthless! Then dust
with rosemary and powdered dried
orange peel. Slide under the
broiler. This seasoning will coax
the ultimate flavor from the chop.
Calorie count: approximately 200.

® Would it be going too far to say

that love can be baked in a pie? No question
that this pie will put a sparkle in any man’s
eye. Line a 9” pie dish with pastry. Let it chill
while you make the filling. Drain two 6-ounce
cans broiled-in-butter mushrooms. Simmer ’/
cup chopped onion in 2 tablespoons butter
or margarine until tender. Then add drained
mushrooms. Beat 2 eggs slightly. Stir in 1 cup
light cream and % teaspoon pepper and 4
teaspoon salt, a dash of mace, 1 cup shredded
carrot and 2 sprigs parsley, minced. Add drained
mushrooms and onions. Pour into chilled crust.
Bake in moderate oven, 350° F., for 40-50
minutes, until custard is set. Makes 6 servings.
Serve with a green salad; spike the dressing
with a snip or two of fresh tarragon.

® TANGY APPLESAUCE: Do try this, and intrigue
your family! Stir 1 teaspoon instant orange
fruit drink into a 15-ounce jar of applesauce for
a delicious, elusive flavor.

= Better to me than the silver or linen | in-
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Just to look through it again is like being with
her; rereading a favorite recipe is reliving the
times one has enjoyed it.

@ ANN’S COLESLAW (now the favorite at Penn’s
Grant Farm): Shred enough cabbage to make
1 quart. Chop very fine. Grate 4 stalks celery
and 2 carrots rather fine. Soak in salted water
in refrigerator 1 hour. Press out all water. Add
“ Cup vinegar and 4 cup sugar. Stir in % cup
mayonnaise. Add salt to taste. Let stand awhile
in refrigerator to blend flavor. Wonderful to serve
with a big baked ham, chicken or for carrying on
picnics!

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opening of a can. Ideal for summer-cottage fare,
when combined with unflavored gelatin for a
quick aspic. For an even quicker dish you might
surprise the family—or guests—by cooking a
package of frozen green beans with the toma-
toes, to make an all-in-one vegetable dish. Fast,
nourishing and good.

In June the yard is full of life. The children are in the pool, the rosebushes
are in first full bloom. This is the month every house most needs a porch.

™ When | was a bride, frostings were my de-
spair—until this never-fail one came into my
recipe file. Blend % cup milk with 2'% table-
spoons flour. Cook, stirring constantly, until
thickened. Remove from heat and cool. Cream 2
tablespoons butter or margarine with the sauce
base. Add % cup confectioners’ sugar, a pinch of
salt and 2 teaspoons vanilla. Spreads as easily
as acompliment. Use on top of a loaf cake.

®@ Foradark, satiny chocolate sauce that children
will adore on their ice cream, melt 3 squares
semisweet chocolate over very low heat, stirring
constantly until chocolate is melted. Add 1%
cups light brown sugar and 1 cup light or heavy
cream. Simmer a few minutes. Add a pinch of
salt and 1 teaspoon vanilla. This keeps well in
the refrigerator.

@ It never hurts a child to miss a meal, but it
usually gives his parents indigestion.

GRANDMOTHER
ON THE BRIDE’S FIRST DINNER
She seemed a trifle too exact;
No pinch of this, no dash of that
(| watched her measure every drop),
But yet it really hit the spot!

™ This came to me word-of-mouth. On board
a certain southern cruise ship, toasted bread
ladiled with creamy Welsh rarebit is served gar-
nished with clusters of green grapes, as delicious
at home as it is aboard ship!

™ ‘To weave an atmosphere of gentle living at
the table, avoid introducing knotty problems.”’

® BUTTERFLAKE ROLLS: These come refriger-
ated, all ready to bake. Follow package direc-
tions and stand these layered-with-butter rolls
on edge in muffin pans, to achieve fanlike re-
sults. Done in 10-12 minutes. Light as a baby’s
conscience.

® Use curried mayonnaise, lettuce, sliced to-
mato, crisp bacon and sliced avocado for a Cali-
fornia club sandwich. Just right for Sunday night!

bin!

@ When four breathless teeners
advance on the kitchen after adip
in the pool or a quick whirl on the
terrace, have this hearty casserole
ready to serve: Dice 2 slices bacon.
Sauté with 1 onion, chopped. Mix
with 2 cans beans-and-beef and 1
small can whole-kernel corn. Put
into casserole. Sprinkle with grated
Parmesan cheese. Bake in mod-
erate oven, 350° F., 35-40 min-
utes, or until bubbly.

@ One of the greatest delights in
cooking is discovering the affini-
ties certain foods have for each
other: pears and ripe Camembert;
cream cheese and strawberries.
But do you know about spinach
and sour cream? Cook a package
of frozen chopped spinach ac-
cording to directions. Drain as
dry as you can get it. Add % cup
commercial sour cream, 1 cup
sautéed sliced mushrooms and a soupcon of
salt, pepper and garlic salt. It’s wonderful!

DI PIETRO

@ CUCUMBER-AND-ZUCCHINI CASSEROLE: This
summer dish is bound to meet with rapturous
enthusiasm. Pare and slice 1 large cucumber.
Slice 4 small zucchinis, but do not peel them.
In the bottom of a 6-cup casserole crumble 3
slices Italian bread. Arrange a layer of cucumber
and zucchini over the bread, dot with butter or
margarine, sprinkle with salt and pepper. Re-
peat layers of vegetables, seasonings, butter
or margarine, until all vegetables are used.
Cover with 2 more slices of Italian bread, crum-
bled. Dot with butter or margarine. Add 1 cup
milk. Bake in moderate oven, 350° F., about
45 minutes. Makes 6 servings.

@ If unusual is what you like, try this way of
preparing scampi (large-sized shrimp). Put 1
pound raw shelled and cleaned shrimp in an
ovenproof pie dish. Spread them out evenly.
Dot generously with butter or margarine. Sprinkle
with salt, pepper and oregano. Crush a garlic
clove over all. Broil until pink and lightly brown.
Sprinkle with chopped parsley and lemon juice.
Serve on toast to absorb good-as-gold juice.

@ HOME-STYLE BACON DRESSING. Some likeit |
hot, some like it cold, but all like it on crisp
spring greens. Sauté 4 or 5 slices bacon. Drain |
off fat and crumble bacon. Beat 1 egg slightly. -
Add 2 tablespoons sugar. Mix with 1 tablespoon |
flour and % teaspoon salt. Blend well. Add 2 {
tablespoons cider vinegar and 14 cups milk. al
Put in skillet with bacon. Cook over low heat, ’
stirring constantly, until it is the consistency of |
thin custard sauce. Particularly zestful served on
crisp garden lettuce, spinachor dandelion greens.

® Cooked vegetables have shapes and like to
keep them. Handle them carefully!

™ For times when you want a sweet drink to
be a little special, your guests will acclaim this: .
Mix 2% cups strong cold coffee and 5 table-
spoons chocolate sauce into 1 pint vanilla ice
cream. Serve in tall glasses. Makes 4 servings.

You make it good and easy
with Kraft Miniature Marshmallows —

the good kind that stay soft

Here is how: Slice 2 or 3 bananas into baked and cooled 8 or 9-inch

pastry shell or baked graham cracker crust

Prepare 1 package instant vanilla pudding and pie filling according to
pie directions on package. Pour over bananas and let stand for 5 minutes
For “instant” meringue, sprinkle 2 cups Kraft Miniature Marshmallows
over top and broil for few minutes until marshmallows are lightly

browned—crusty on top, creamy on the inside.

Chill for 30 minutes and serve.

Make it by

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are eS

SUNDAY

There’s something about Sunday that’s different. On weekdays
there’s always a scramble to get the kids to school and the husband
to work on time. Then the wife still has to feed the dog and stack
the dishes before she has a chance to fix her hair and read the paper.

But on Sunday you don’t have to get up early and shave—you
can throw on an old robe and drink your coffee and relax. It’s a time
to think long thoughts—to recall youthful ambitions and consider
present realities. About then you look at your wife and she looks at
you and one of the kids comes downstairs headfirst with his collec-
tion of birds’ eggs and it is brought home to you once more that you
are a family man.

I don’t recall the date, but it was the Sunday when this foreign
agent was driving his Zeppelin over some shark-infested lagoon. He
had just thrown out a couple of burlap sacks—one shaped like Annie
and the other like Sandy. I put the paper aside, thinking of the
vanity of worldly possessions.

Peg was looking at another section of the paper. ““Did you happen
to read Spouse ’n’ Home?” she asked. “It’s that column Hilda
Dracket writes every week. This time it’s a quiz about compati-
bility—you fill in the answers and then look up your score. We can
skip the first one. ‘Does he ever surprise you with flowers or candy
for no good reason at all?’ It would surprise me all right and it
would certainly be for no good reason. Now the next one ——”’

“Not so fast.’’ I held up my hand. “‘Let’s consider this from a
slightly different angle.’’ She was watching me suspiciously. “Many
times,”’ I said, “when I have been about to enter a florist shop I
have stopped to look at the unnatural arrangements ——”

“Next time just walk in,” she said, “without looking.”

“When I compare this garish display,” I went on, “with the
natural beauties you have created here’’—I waved toward the
planter—‘“‘and there’’—I indicated the African violets

“That’s enough.”’ Peg leaned over to pick up the ashtray that
had somehow got brushed to the floor. ““When you get to the candy
store you’d better keep your hands in your pockets.”’

I smiled. “‘I suppose I’m just being a sentimentalist,” I said, “but
I can’t help thinking of the candy you used to make for me when we
“were in school.”

“Keep talking,”’ she said.

“The Penuche Queen the fellows in the dorm called you.
You should have seen them swarming around whenever I got back
from a date, calling for fudge and taffy and tugging at my pockets.”

“T always wondered what you did to your suits,” she said. “I
thought maybe you carried baseballs in the pockets.”

“My only point was ——”

“You’ve made your point,” she said. “‘Just one more question:
what thoughts cross your mind when you pass a jewelry store?”
~ T smiled. ‘I’m glad you asked me that.”

She nodded. ‘“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“T’ve looked in those windows more often than not,’ I went on,
“and I will agree that diamonds and emeralds have a certain cold
beauty ——”’

_ “But nothing like mamma cooks up at home—that’s the part I
want t® hear.”

I reached over and took her hand. “‘To me there’s only one piece
of jewelry that ever meant anything,” I told her. “Oh, I’ll admit that
it’s just a plain wedding band that hasn’t much value ——”

By,
By WILL STANTON

“T knew better,” Peg said, “but somehow I simply had to ask.”’

I squeezed her hand. “‘I’ll bet you a quarter Hilda Dracket isn’t
holding hands with anybody,” I remarked, ‘“‘and here we are enjoy-
ing a quiet Sunday morning ——’”’

Peg sat up suddenly. “‘Where are all the kids?”

“Don’t worry; they’re down at the corner lot, looking for my
fountain pen. I offered a dollar reward.”’

“Now wait just a minute’’—she pulled her hand away—“‘you
worked that one last week. You had the poor things hunting all
Saturday morning and then you found your pen in your other suit.”’

“T gave them the reward anyway,” I pointed out. “Everybody
was satisfied.”

“That was different,’ she said. “That was an honest mistake.
But now to send them trudging through the weeds looking for a
pen that isn’t even there ———’”’

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” I told her. “I had a feeling we
might need a little solitude this morning, so last night on the way
to the party I threw a pen out the car window—Just in case. Let’s
have the next question.”

“Don’t you feel there’s something just a little underhanded ——’
Peg acted a little disturbed.

I glanced down at the paper. “ ‘Does he ever quote a line of
poetry about your hair, your eyes, your lips?’”’ I thought for a min-
ute. ‘““There was a young lady from Merryfair,’” I said, “‘with a
broad and expansive ——”’

“Skip it,” she said. ““Anybody who would stoop to planting a
fountain pen ——”

““My first impulse was to compare thee to a summer’s day,” I
remarked. ‘“Thy neck is as alabaster—a pillar of salt ——’

“A pillar of marble.”

“Exactly. And when you come to scoring this, you might note
that someone who tosses out scraps from Shakespeare and the Bible
is a cut above your Roses are red faction.”

““‘We keep trying to teach the children the importance of hon-
esty and truth,” she said. ‘Oh, well. Do you want some more coffee ?”’

“Might as well,” I said. ““The thing you forget is that truth is a
two-way street. Suppose somebody has a new baby and one person
tells the mother it’s darling and the other one tells the truth. Which
is the better citizen ?”’

She handed me my coffee. ““You aren’t making any sense at all.”’

I suppose I should have known better. To Peg all new babies are
darling. It doesn’t matter what kind they are—baby lizards, baby
clams—they’re all cute. It’s only after they grow up and so on.
“Let’s have the next question,” I said.

She picked up the paper. ““‘Do you both agree on national
issues?’ What’s the matter’’—she glanced up—“‘coffee too hot?”

I set down the cup. “‘No, the temperature’s just about right.”

“IT see.’’ Her expression became formal. ‘Well, if it doesn’t taste
like the kind mother used to make, I’m sorry.”

““As a matter of fact,’’ I observed, “‘it tastes exactly like the kind
your mother used to make. If I closed my eyes I could almost be-
lieve you were using the same grounds. Now, what was the question ?””

“You go ahead and read your paper.”

“TI hope I haven’t said anything to upset you.”

“Of course not.”” She went back to her section of the paper. ‘I
know you never feel like yourself in the

CONTINUED ON PAGE 104

wantit,’’ saidaSan

Antonio mother. “If you

want it, you should be

Ih RUTH refrain heard during 533

interviews conducted in

all sections of the country for the Ladies’ Home Jour-

that the cost of sending several children through col-
lege has reached a staggering amount.

What is the cheapest way to go to college? Meas-
university branch or junior college; or 2—attend a
state or land-grant university in one’s home state.
Even among these, cost estimates range from under
and it is often possible for Easterners to attend col-
lege more cheaply outside their own states.

Four-year costs at“ prestige” colleges have reached
dents. The cost spiral at state and land-grant univer-
sities is a special concern, since they are a middle-
income family’s major hope. The $3000-a-year tag at
even publicly supported universities is compound-
ing the college problem of average families, and
threatens to bar from college three groups espe-
because when families must choose, they usually send
their boys).

In the Journal survey, many questions were asked
plan for putting money aside to pay for college. Most
families expect their children to pay part of their
way by working during summer vacations. But even
dents must face facts as they are today.

A special study made for the Ladies’ Home Jour-
nal by the Joint Office of Institutional Research,

The great American tradition of working your
way through college is fast becoming a legend. Stu-
dent earnings are still important, but increasing aca-
creased as fast as enrollments.

The number of scholarships is increasing, but
amounts are smaller than parents sometimes realize

“To get a good ed-

ucation, you must

willing to pay for it.”
This was a recurring

nal by Dr. George Gallup’s Public Opinion Surveys.
It was also a very realistic refrain. There is no doubt
ured in dollars only, probably the cheapest way is
to: 1—live at home and commute to a state-supported
$1000 a year at a few Western and Southern state
colleges to $2835 at M.I.T. and $3150 at Cornell,
$12,000, and most ‘‘medium-price” state universi-
ties now require $6000-$7200 for out-of-state stu-
prestige colleges almost rules them out for all but the
well-to-do or the very smart. Now the high cost of
cially—girls, minorities and low-income families
(girls because their earnings are usually lower, and
to get parental views on meeting the costs of college.
Slightly more than half (53 percent) said they had a
these plans, if carried out, will not suffice to meet the
full costs of college. Parents of college-bound stu-
based on most recent costs, reveals some of the fol-
lowing new facts and trends:
demic demands are making it harder to spend many
hours working for pay. Nor have available jobs in-
and, even when available, usually meet only about
one fifth of today’s costs.

The big trend is toward borrowing. But some of
the burgeoning educational installment plans need
to be shopped with care to avoid piling large finance
charges on top of steep college fees.

Another noticeable trend is for mothers to work

to help finance college for their children.

Tuition fees are the explosive force behind boom-
ing college costs. For the state and land-grant uni-
versities, tuition increases have averaged 48 percent

just since 1958. For the “name”’ colleges increases
are staggering, in dollars as well as percentage, a not
uncommon jump being from $1100 to $1500 a year.

Board costs have risen less drastically —most often
10 to 20 percent.

If board costs remain relatively level, in line with
the current general stability of living costs, but tui-
tion continues to rise, parents must anticipate that
college costs will continue to increase at the rate of
perhaps 4 or 5 percent a year for at least the next
few years.

A middle-income family with several children will
still be able to finance a college education for them if
a savings plan is started early and if all potential
aids are explored. Attending college still is related
more to determination, motivation and advance
planning than to family income. A realistic plan,
assuming costs of $1500 the first year, and rising 5
percent a year, might follow this formula:

Aim to have enough on hand for the first year
through a combination of parents’ and student’s sav-
ings. If not possible, plan to have at least $1100 to
finance the first term without outside work, and half
the second term’s expenses. For the student’s remain-
ing years in college it should be safe to expect him to
provide about half the needed $1550-$1600 a year
through summer work and a combination of work
and aid.

This formula means that the parents would pro-
vide over four years about $3100 of the costs of col-
lege for a student at a typical medium-price univer-
sity. Such a plan requiring $775 per year should be
within reach of most families in the $6000—$10,000
income bracket. For example, the University of
Massachusetts, where expenses run $1500 a year,
found that the ‘middle’ 1960 income of its students’
families was $7600 (including salaries of both hus-
band and wife before taxes). One out of five deter-
mined families even managed college with incomes
of under $5500. Revealingly, the university found
over 40 percent of mothers reported earnings—typi-
cally, $2500 a year.

But if $775 a year is not possible for moderate-
income families or those with several children, the
balance will have to come from scholarships, loans
or additional student earnings.

Scholarships are increasingly available and should
be applied for but, to repeat, are neither so plentiful
nor so large as parents sometimes hope. For example,
last year Ohio State had to turn down 3000 of 5000
scholarship applications. The University of Massa-
chusetts was able to award only 72 scholarships to
the 1150 prospective freshmen who applied for them.

Loans sometimes are the chief hope many colleges
now hold out to needy students. Colleges often now
group loans and scholarships together as “student
aid” and tend to give even qualified scholarship ap-
plicants a combination of scholarship and loan.

Though loans are a major resource for financing
college education, they still need to be selected and
used with care to avoid 1—unnecessarily high finance
charges, and 2—heavy debts that may influence a
graduate to choose his career on the basis of quick
income. Here are sources and comparative costs:

National Defense Act loans have become the main
source. They are available at a true interest of 3 per-
cent, which does not start accruing until a year after
graduation. Another important feature is their avail-
ability to freshmen. College and state-sponsored
loans sometimes are available only to students who
have completed at least one term, sometimes more.

BY SIDNEY MARGOLIUS
Consultant on Family .Finances
of the Family Service Association of America |

State long-term loans are especially prominent now:
in Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, New Yor ‘
North Dakota, Virginia, Wisconsin and Wyoming.
Sometimes they are made through banks. Your sta fe
education department can tell you where to apply.)

These are not always so reasonable as the Nationa
Defense loans or even colleges’ own loans. The Ney
York loans cost little. No interest is charged while
the student is still in college, and only 3 percent
thereafter. But Massachusetts Education Assistance
loans cost a true interest rate of 5 percent while tht
student is still in school, and a finance charge of $4.5f
per $100 after graduation—a true rate of about
percent. For a loan of $1200 for three years, the
student would graduate with a debt of $1380, and
the additional finance charge for three more years
would raise it to $1566.

Colleges now tend to offer National Defense loans
to students seeking long-term financing, and use their
own loan funds for shorter or emergency loans. But
many still make their own long-term loans too. The
interest charges range from nothing at all to 5 per-
cent at the colleges surveyed, with 3 to 4 the most}
typical. In the majority of cases, interest begins
after graduation.

Installment loans are offered by a number of
finance companies that have started their own “‘tui-}
tion-aid” or ‘‘educational-assistance”’ plans at true)
interest of often 8 to 10 percent and sometimes more

Though you may sign up for a so-called $3000 or
$4000 plan, the finance company really advances the
money only as college bills come due. But you repay
monthly out of income. You can devise your own
interest-free plan by starting with a fund of perhaps
$750, and then replenishing it each month. Working
students often provide half or more of their expenses
earning $400-$500 during the school year, and an: |
other $400 during the summer. But students also are”
tending to borrow rather than take jobs that sacri-
fice study time for small return.

Most of the mothers interviewed in the Gallup
survey for the Journal felt that loans were the best |
source of college funds. Two out of three mothers |
thought that if their sons or daughters were eligible
for long-term governmental loans, they should ac: |
cept them. Only one in six (18 percent) would advise
them not to accept such loans. Many women felt |
that long-term loans would help teach young people '
responsibility; that knowing they will have to pay |
back the money might cause them to work harder.
The chief reason cited against loans is that a debt
of this kind is a millstone about the neck of any
young person about to enter his life’s work at the |
same time that he reaches marrying age.

Whether the money comes from savings, current
income, loans or scholarships, going to college today |
costs a frightening amount of money. Nevertheless,
college enrollments continue to burgeon in the United
States. More than nine out of ten of our mothers@
hope their children will go to college, and their hopes |
made no distinction between sons and daughters.

Financing the college years with a minimum of ||
strain requires an early start on savings—the earlie
the better, to get the full help of compound interest
in making funds grow. It requires an early. start o
planning, to explore all potential aids. Among the
hopeful developments that brighten the prospects of
moderate-income families are the interest of govern-
ment, business and community organizations in pro
viding more scholarships and loans, and the spread
of junior colleges and two-year technical institutes

|
|
|
|

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PICTORIAL PARADE

I have always been driven by some distant mu-
sic; a battle hymn, no doubt, for I have been at
war from the beginning. I rode into the field
with sword gleaming and standard flying. I was
going to conquer the world.

I’ve never looked back before. I’ve never had

the time and it has always seemed so danger-
ous. To look back is to relax one’s vigil.

Any vogue has always bored me. I find no ex-
ception in the now stylish trip to the inner
world of the psyche where mamma and papa
are the villains of one’s life. I could never afford
this kind of vacation into self-pity and the
transference of one’s mistakes to another. What-
ever I did, I did. My mistakes are mine. I alone
am responsible.

If you hate your parents for willing you buck-
teeth, have the teeth fixed or become a comic—
only keep quiet about it.

My father’s cavalier disappearance from our
home when I was a small child certainly has
significance. Consider my quartet

marveled at life and exulted in struggle. I have
never lost my initial wonder. To be aware that
you’re part of the flow—part of the whole
miracle—is overwhelming.

Obviously, I have lived in a permanent state
of rapture. I was never able to share it with a
mate. It exhausted them. It evidently drove
them mad; but I was as helpless as they. Once
you’ve heard the sound of that distant music,
you’re deaf to everything else.

The Yankee in me is still appalled by my re-
peated attempts at marriage. Knowing that I
failed at the impossible doesn’t help. My mis-
take was the repeated trying.

What can you do when newspapers call your
husband ‘‘Mr. Davis’’? How helpless and yield-
ing can a woman be when her weekly salary
exceeds his annual income? What Mrs. could
I have been to avoid this?

It is true that I never should have married,
but I didn’t want to live without a man.
I was brought up torespect the con-

of marriages. But his hypothetical
perfection as a father might have

ventions; love had to end in mar-
riage. I’m afraid it did.

bound me to him and spoiled other

L ’

The die was cast when daddy left

men for me. But why
waste time hating your
father when he had a

father who had a father?

us. My sister Bobby’s world went

up in smoke. Mine shifted on its |
ae

axis. It’s just as simple as that.

At thirty I learned what it means to be re-
sponsible for the outcome of the show. You
must set the tempo, chart the course. You are
a star. If you aim high, the pygmies will jump
on your back and tug at your skirts. The people
who call you a driving female will come along
for the ride. If they weigh you down, you will
fight them off. It is then you are called a bitch.

I do not regret one professional enemy I have
made. Any actor who doesn’t dare to make an
enemy should get out of the business. I worked
for my career and [’Il protect it as I would my
children—every inch of the way. I do not regret
the dust I’ve kicked up. I always fought people
my own size, and more often than not they
were bigger.

A woman has to fly high and fight to reach the
top. She should travel light—unburdened—but
I’ve always done things the hard way. If I fell in
love, I married. Had I been a European, I would
have managed things differently.

I wanted to be married. I wanted a home.
Ruthie, Bobby and I hadn’t had one since I was
seven years old. We were on the move for years—
gypsies. Small wonder that—when I could—I
acquired houses as other women acquire jewels.

It is true that I have lived with nerves ex-
posed. My pulse has raced in endless crisis. But
there is the positive side to the story. I have also
© 1962 by Bette Davis

an aut

obic

I am living alone for the first
time in my life. Alone
without the love of a
man I always wanted. I
knew I would end up this
way. I have always said that I
would end up a lonely old woman
on a hill.

I’ve gone solo. Read your pro-
grams. Bette Davis in her no-man show!

The Davises of Marlborough, Wiltshire, bore
arms with a golden stag on a red shield—the
seal of an ancient Welsh tribe. The Pilgrim
James Davis of Marlborough came to America
and was made a freeman of Newbury, Massa-
chusetts, on March 4, 1634. He and eleven others
cleared the forest at the Indian village of Pen-
tucket and founded the present city of Haver-
hill, Massachusetts. A selectman and repre-
sentative of the general court, he was a Puritan
and accused one John Godfrey of witchcraft.

No doubt he would disassociate himself from
any responsibility. It is true that there is, as
usual, another side to my story. The Keyes
family who arrived in New England the same
year from England intermarried with the
Favors (Le Fievre), Huguenots who settled here
in 1688 and helped found New Rochelle. They
moved on to the shores of the Merrimac River,
first at Bristol Hill and then in Lowell, Massa-
chusetts.

The historic drive that propelled both Davises
and Keyeses to establish churches and indus-
tries, administer colleges, captain clipper ships
and fight both Indians and English was blended
with the more sensual and aesthetic impulsions
of the Favors, who have also sprinkled France

>
>

BETTE DAVIS
THE LONELY LIFE
an aulobiography

with actors This
created the powerhouse I knew as my grand-

and musicians. mixture
mother, Eugenia Favor.

She was five feet of TNT. Handsome, impe-
rious, she ruled her house by divine right.
Grandmother Favor’s house on Chester Street
in Lowell was a maple-shaded palace. Her
motto ‘Kind hearts than
coronets, and simple faith
blood.”? This was more an admonition against

more
Norman

was are

than
directive against

pride than it was a

ambition. Grandmother Favor had no objec-
tion to that.

CULVER

“Here I am at six months with Ruthie, my mother.” Father,

Harlow Morrell Davis, was in Harvard Law School when
Bette was born in 1908. They lived in Lowell, Massachusetts.

My mother, Ruthie, inherited Eugenia’s
energy and taste plus talents she relinquished
in favor of her firstborn. She starred in school
theatricals, edited her high-school magazine,
painted and sketched with great delicacy.
Mother studied elocution and dramaties with
Miss Porter in Lowell. From the record, she
astonished her audience at the Temple, Chau-
tauqua’s auditorium in Ocean Park, Maine,
with a reading of Lew Wallace’s ‘“Tamerlane.”’
Ruthie
ways an actress.
Till the day of
her death at

was al-

seventy-six, she
still was the star
of the family.
Ruthie
met

first
father
Park,

my
in Ocean
when she was
seven. They came

to know each

other well in the

ti A

hortly after

her tool this picture
summer

that

vaca-

both

nade our look =

I was 8, Bobby 7.” tions

succession of

families enjoyed at the popular resort. In 1905
mother was a beautiful young girl—accom-
plished, gay, graceful and filled with the joy of
life. She was a painting by Mr. Sargent.
Harlow Morrell Davis was a brooding Roualt
clown. Tall, gaunt—with a bulging forehead,
rimless glasses and a Phi Beta key straight
from Bates College. He was four times presi-

“George Arliss was truly ‘The Man Who Played God’ to
Ruthie and me.” He chose Bette as leading lady for film with
that title after Universal failed to renew her option in 1932.

dent of his class, champion debater and head
of the athletic association. He had been ac-
cepted at Oxford, but declined when he dis-
covered that he had to give up cigarettes.
He was soon to enter Harvard Law School,
where he brilliant head
off. Although his father was deacon of the
Baptist Church in Augusta, Maine, my father

could smoke his

was a nonbeliever. Of extremely serious
mien, he had—early in life—an apparent
hankering for fast horses and the beauty of
Ruthie.

‘ather courted Mother with a flattering per-
sistence that aroused interest if not love. But
Grandmother Favor, after a discreet inves-
tigation of the Davis exchequer, decreed that
it was a good match. Mother was friendly
with Mrs. Davis, who frankly confided to

Ruthie that her son was brilliant and utterly

It was 1937, her marriage to Harmon Nelson was ending. Bette
at Hollywood party with tennis star Fred Perry. Others : Loretta
Young, Clark Gable, Elizabeth Allen and the Gary Coopers.

disagreeable. She warned Mother, ‘tHe
will make your life miserable, my dear’’—but
as usual, things were decided in Grandmoth-
er’s favor.

On their wedding day, immediately after the
ceremony, some happy things in white eyelet
and wasp waists laughed gaily and in time-
honored custom threw fistfuls of rice. Harlow

Morrell
*~Damn you, Pll get you for this!’? A rather

Davis turned to them and said,
startling reaction for a bridegroom. The new
Mrs. Davis’s heart sank.

After their honeymoon, they moved into

Grandmother Fayor’s house in Lowell. Daddy

Bette’s first movie role was at John Murray Anderson School
of Dramatics. “There were classes in everything, including
movies.” She left to join Rochester, N.Y., stock company.

attended Harvard Law School. They were mar-
ried on July first. Much to my father’s distress,
the following April fifth I was born.
They had not planned a family so quickly
and Ruthie’s “‘inefficiency”’ was a demerit. The
#3 first of many.
Her inability to
share his intel-
lectual life be-
came a source of
irritation. Ruth-
ie’s naive en-
thusiasm for life
in general and
the baby in par-
ticular was be-
yond his ken. Fa-
ther’s wit was a
knife he sharp-
ened on Mother.
' We moved to
Winchester,
Massachusetts, and Mother compounded her
felony by giving birth to my sister, Barbara. I
was eighteen months old and ecstatic with my
new “‘doll’’ for a day. I then, incredibly, re-
moved Bobby from my crib and placed her face

“For the first time in years I had a
part that really thrilled me,” as
Mildred in “Of Human Bondage.”

“Elizabeth was my tankard of tea. I adored her.” Ruthie,
Bette’s mother, visited her on set of “The Virgin Queen,” as
she visited at least once every movie her daughter worked in.

down on a chair nearby. When Mother and
our nurse discovered Bobby, I explained, ‘I
don’t want dolly here.’’ A few years later I cut
her hair in scallops. As different as night and
day as we are, Bobby and I have always been
great friends.

Daddy believed that children should not sit
at the dining-room table with grown-ups

until they were able to conduct an intelligent
conversation. We were allowed to have dinner
on Sundays, however, with the family. We
were always banished in tears for some im-
propriety or lack of wit. Bobby and I were
treated by daddy as a necessary evil. Daddy’s
mind was original and his only descent into
banality was his sampler, ‘Children should
be seen and not heard.” If it had been up to
my father, I could haye made my name only
in silent pictures.

In a supreme effort to make up for Daddy’s

—

DDS

Louella Parsons, “always most encouraging,” is on Bette’s left
in this picture made at huge party at Marion Davies’s beach
house. Others are Irene Dunne, William R. Hearst, Mary Brian.

boredom with us, Ruthie showered us with
love. Mother was sunlit—Daddy the dark
cloud. I cannot recall one moment of affection
+ | between my parents in our home.

ne Daddy, however, had another dimension.

“What can you do when newspapers call your husband Mr.
Davis?” Mr. and Mrs. Harmon Nelson in Model T Ford he
|| bought for $75 in °37. “It was his symbol of independence.”

|| He was very generous with gifts to Ruthie.
When Grandmother’s fortunes ebbed, he put
».'| mother’s brother Richard through Harvard
* | and inyited him to live with us. He helped
* | to support others as well. Daddy cared noth-
'ing for the opinions of others—was solely
prompted by his own code of ethics, which
was very high.

My impression of my early childhood is a
happy one—due completely to the efforts of
my mother. There is a quick succession of
bright moments. Aunt Mildred’s wedding at
our house on Cambridge Street in Winchester.

“T held the statue, but it was Ruthie’s triumph.” Miss Davis
won Academy Award for Best Actress of 1938. With her are
Jack Warner and Fay Bainter, Best Supporting Actress.

Bobby and I were flower girls and the Japanese
lanterns hung from the maple trees, trans-
forming our lawn into a fairyland. Those bit-
ing, cold, white days when Bobby and I
would slide down the hill behind the house on

sleds. The

kitchen—shiny and busy and expectant with

our backsides—without our
custards and fruit pies. The flowers in the
woods nearby, and our vegetable garden in the
summer. The fresh colors and tastes of that
garden! The first Cadillac Daddy brought
home. The family outings on Sundays.

Grandmother Favor would hang out of the
ear and shriek, ‘‘Harlow, stop!’

The brakes would screech. ‘‘What’s the
matter?”? Daddy
would ask.

“Children, do
you see those ap-
ple blossoms.
Ruthie, we sim-
ply have to take
home some apple
blossoms.”’

The Cadillac
would look like a
hearse on our re-
turn.

If I could never
win my father,
Icompletely con-
quered Ruthie. I
became an absolute despot at the age of two.
Partly to compensate for Father, but mostly
through sheer terror, Ruthie surrendered. A
tantrum got me what I wanted. My demands
were frightening and unusual. My passion for

“T was glamorized beyond recognition
in ‘Fashion Follies of 1934” with
a platinum wig and false eyelashes.

“T started work on what turned out to be my favorite of all the
parts I’ve played.” In this scene from “Dark Victory” Bette
and Geraldine Fitzgerald are directed by Edmund Goulding.

EUROPEAN

order and perfection was unheard of in a child
so young. An untied lace on a shoe, a wrinklein
a dress drove me into a fury.

One Sunday when I was dressed to visit
Grandmother Favor, I turned blue with rage.
Father raised his eyes to heaven and hands to
ears. Mother looked for open safety pins.
Nothing would quiet me until Ruthie removed
my dress which had a wrinkle down the front
and slipped a freshly starched one over my
head. I was not only pacified but smiled—
displaying my first tooth. I should have been
paddled. om

Daddy spanked \\ 4
me only once,
and at Mother’s
request. Bobby
and I[—at my in-
stigation—had
eaten some un-
ripe grapes, for-
bidden to us, in
our arbor. We had
a Roman
which
classically:
Ruthie
**Harlow, I gave them castor oil. You can give
them a spanking.”’ He did!

Father did try. He took us to the circus once
and it was a marvel to me until I noticed the

feast

ended

“The most beautiful baby ever born”
was two days old when photographed.
“B.D.” was a May Day child.

said,

long, green carpet that was placed in the ring
to accommodate the parade of animals. The

seam down the middle was crooked and it
drove me mad. I was so disturbed by it that I

“When I married Merrill I made it contingent on our adopting
more children.” The Merrills visited New York City in 1954—
left to right they’re Gary, Mike, Margo, Bette and “B.D.”

sat among all the laughing children, brooding
like a Charles Addams monster. Order! Order!
To this day I would walk over burning coals to
straighten a picture or adjust a blind; but
father simply decided I was an ungrateful
brat. Father only knew that he had sacrificed
an afternoon for nothing.

He was now, of course, graduated from
Harvard and was a patent lawyer with the
United Shoe Machinery Company of Boston.
He was on his way to becoming one of the
most respected specialists in the patent field.

His three women were CONTINUED ON PAGE 7

an is a very serious matter. But some women are more serious matters than others. Ce 5),

ep,

marriage ~ KAATJE HURLBUT

ILLUSTRATED BY TED COCONIS

My grandfather and his son-in-law, my father, have a great thing in common: my
mother, who at fifty is wispy, temperamental, and has pink hair. My grandfather
scowls in fierce self-reproach now and then and says to my father: DO ‘‘Rob, I’ve
spoiled that brat.’’ 0 ‘‘That’s all right,’’ says papa; ‘‘so have |.’”’ O “‘I started it; you
hadn’t any choice.”’ ‘‘I didn’t want any choice,’’ says papa. 0 Then old papa,
as we call my grandfather, looks at me, his only grandson, and says solemnly,
‘“‘Watch—and learn.’ 0 ‘‘Yes, sir,’’ | say. ‘‘A woman, a dog and a walnut tree,
the more you beat ’em, the better they be.”’
Long ago when old papa was young, he built himself a lodge up here in the
mountains where he fished and hunted with his cronies. But it is no longer
a retreat; with the years and the generations, it has grown. It rises
and rambles in the woods beside the lake. We have always spent the
Summers here: my father and mother, old papa and my sisters and
their children and husbands; and, of course, Stella, who has
cooked for mother for thirty years. Though we are only twenty miles
from town up here, we feel wonderfully cut off from the world; there’s
no other house for miles except a small cottage at the far end of
the lake which old papa built a few years back so he could
‘ get away from everybody—but every time Stella had a
meal ready, most of us were visiting old papa and Stella got
so mad he had to come back to the lodge. So now the
e cottage is rented out each summer.
: When we arrive in June—a caravan of cars and
families—old papa thumps upstairs to the
balcony which surrounds the huge main room.
He looks down on us and shakes his head.
: “One woman, Rob,”’ he says to papa, ‘‘has done
1 this.’’ (The woman, my Continued on page 94
4

ath?

74 Ae”

FO a

EUGENIA LOUIS

The pearls, exquisite beyond belief,
transformed Mary Dane.
She was shy and unloved when they

came into her life—

to change it forever after.

By LEE MURDAUGH

There are philosophers who say that the soul is immutable: that “as
it was in the beginning, so it shall be, henceforth and forevermore’’;
and they refer the curious and the doubtful to a vast literature which
supports this view. The scholar, as he thumbs through the manu-
scripts, will find fables and tales of magical happenings, stories of men
transformed into beasts and beasts into men, of worlds destroyed and
worlds restored; and all this, and other marvels besides, without the
soul of man being changed by so much as the weight of a hair. But
such tales, as we know, come from the pens of storytellers, and who
is to say whether a tale expresses truth, or merely is told in a way that
avoids treading on God’s toe?

Other philosophers insist that the soul does change. They ask,
“Does not the soul have eternal life?’’ And they add, “‘Is it not true
that life and change go hand in hand?”

The dispute is not resolved here. True, we tel! of a woman who was
transformed; but even as we sort out and arrange the things we know,
the question remains: what kind of transformation? We know that
we are concerned with a young woman named Mary Dane. We know
of Mary Dane that she lived alone in a large, old-fashioned room. We
know that for nine years she worked at the museum. We know the
catalyst: pearls so rare as to be beyond price.

Mary Dane was changed by possession of the pearls. She could
not resist their impact any more than she could have resisted the
changes in mind and heart that would have taken piace had she
sprouted golden horns above her neat, dark brows. The pearls were
beyond belief, beyond expectation, and they transformed Mary Dane.
But as for what happened to Mary Dane’s soul, we shall leave that
to the philosophers.

There was a mirror in the room where Mary Dane lived. It reached
from floor to ceiling, and was framed in a garland of flowers and
leaves, tied with ribbons and graced by cupids. Long ago the flowers
and the ribbons and the cupids had been thinly leafed in gold, but the
years, with gentle, probing fingers, had taken bits of the gold to lay
bare patches of the chalky base. Deep in the glass was a wavering, a
shifting of image and movement, like a pool stroked by a wand.

Mary Dane stood before the mirror, and she was reflected in the
watery glass, naked except for the pearls. They blushed across her
breasts, and fell in a deep loop that rubbed at her knees.

Take off your clothes, Mary Dane, and wear the Roses next to your body.
Get used to the feel of the pearls. Observe their color

The mirror’s subtle flaws made for layers of light and shadow, and in
the changing light a sea nymph moved, clothed in the jewels of the sea.
Was it only an hour before that the pearls had come? The uni-
formed messengers had demanded proof CONTINUED ON PAGE 97

capons

Aree TO bode

breast can@et...

ictories are being won in the fight against cancer, though the

great victory—a known, complete cure—is still elusive.

Twenty-five years ago, 160,000 Americans were alive and con-
sidered cured five years after their illness was diagnosed as cancer. This
year the number of five-year cures will exceed 1,100,000, according to
the American Cancer Society. Uterine cancer—for centuries the terror
of women everywhere—1is now virtually 100 percent curable because the
simple, lifesaving ““Pap’”’ test enables it to be discovered early. If all
women would have this painless, five-minute examination annually,
victory over uterine cancer might well be total victory.

Progress has been slower against breast cancer. It leads all other
forms of cancer as a cause of death in women. Each year it strikes more
than 60,000 new victims in this country. Without early detection and
treatment, half may die. But even in this fight we have new weapons:
regular checkups and monthly self-examination help detect the cancer
before it has begun to spread to other parts of the body (the greatest
danger of breast cancer and the reason why its toll remains so stub-
bornly high); in the hopefully near future, special X rays to detect it
even before it 1s discoverable to the touch; constantly progressing tech-
niques of surgery and radiation. And the newest, most vibrantly
hopeful weapon of all: chemotherapy.

This year the National Cancer Institute will spend $35,000,000 to
“find, develop and put into use effective anticancer drugs.’’ It will
screen between 40,000 and 50,000 different compounds, find perhaps
400 to 600 worth further testing, reduce these to about 175, the num-
ber now undergoing actual clinical trial. Among these may be the great
one, the cure. The hope is always there. But more likely, among these
may be one, or possibly two, to add to the roster of twenty drugs proved
effective against cancer. None is yet a proved cure. All have their dan-
gers in any but the most expert hands. None will yet produce the great,
longed-for miracle, but some have brought about the smaller but no less
genuine miracles of prolonged life, relief from pain, ability to live a pro-
ductive, close-to-normal existence. And for these drugs there are
prayers of thanks. They come from cancer patients themselves and
from the people who love them and feel deep gratitude for the great
gift of the added years together.

Perhaps chemotherapy has made its most hopeful gains against
childhood leukemia and the malignant lymphomas, its most sensational
against a rare form of cancer called choriocarcinoma which, tragically,
attacks pregnant women. Reporting results of tests of the drug Metho-
trexate in treating choriocarcinoma, the surgeon general of the United
States said, ‘‘For the first time, it appears that a drug has cured cancer
in man!” Recently, Methotrexate has shown promise in treating other
forms of cancer as well.

There is evidence that Enovid (‘‘The Pill’’—an oral contraceptive
may be a control factor in breast and uterine cancer. Further studies

re now under way.

Against breast cancer, some notable advances are on record.

Hormones: testosterone, a male sex horomone, is effective in treat-

ig breast-cancer patients who are premenopausal; diethylstilbestrol,
‘ hormone, is effective against breast cancer in postmeno-
nen.

(OE SPICER

5-Fluorouracil (one of the newest drugs) appears to hold real

hope. Nitrogen mustard has been known for some time, but a
new, experimental use of it—combining it with surgery to kill
cancer cells which might be dislodged into the system during the
operation—reduced the death rate in one group of patients by 60
percent.

ThioTEPA, another anticancer drug known for some years, showed
even more exciting results when used as an adjuvant to surgery. In
recent tests, breast-cancer patients so treated had an eight-out-of-ten
recovery rate, as opposed to a five-out-of-ten rate in patients treated
with surgery alone. Results of another study showed that ThioTEPA
had cut in half the likelihood of recurrence of the cancer. ““The results
are so striking,’’ reported Dr. Warren H. Cole, past president of the
American Cancer Society and one of the country’s foremost cancer
fighters, “‘that we might expect the procedure to become a routine one
in cancer of the breast if the figures continue so favorable.” Carefully
controlled tests now under way across the nation are confidently ex-
pected to bear out results of the earlier studies.

Dr. Jeanne C. Bateman, of Washington, D.C., has been working
with ThioTEPA for ten years. Most of her work lies with patients
whose cancer was considered too far advanced to be helped by further
surgery or radiation. ““ThioTEPA is not a cure, it is a holding action,”
she says. But she feels that its importance in cancer can be compared
with the importance of insulin in diabetes. “Insulin does not cure
diabetes, but it does allow many diabetics to live comfortable, rela-
tively normal lives.”’

Though she stresses ‘“‘no miracle cures have occurred,” many of
her cases appear miraculous. The huge tumor of one “‘hopeless”’ breast-
cancer patient began to shrink and heal at the end of two weeks of
treatment. A month later, feeling well and in good spirits, the patient
returned to a full-time job and a normal life. Another woman whose
case was past the help of surgery or radiation responded so well to
ThioTEPA that she was able to resume housekeeping plus her job as
a schoolteacher, happy and grateful for “four more good years” of
watching her children grow up. A pretty young mother developed
what was described as “‘a very bad breast tumor”’ during pregnancy.
After surgery she was given a course of chemotherapy. That was more
than two years ago. “Mother and baby are doing fine,’’ Dr. Bateman
reports happily.

In discussing the value of chemotherapy in cancer, she’ says,
‘We do not yet have a cancer cure in the real sense of the word. But
if we could change our thinking—think of cancer not as a fatal ter-
minal state unless completely burned or cut out, but as a chronic
disease which can be treated and often controlled—both patient and
doctor would find morale improved and treatment easier. Our object,
then, is to keep the patient ahead of the disease so that management
of it will not be financially or psychologically destructive, theré may
be a good and useful survival, the patient may live to die by some
other disease. We have reason for optimism. There are a growing num-
ber of ways in which many uncured cancers can be treated. And we
can anticipate not only more effective anticancer agents in the near
future, but also the true cure we have been searching for.”’ END

ear shook me that weekend five Aprils ago when I learned that I

would have to go to the hospital. I had had small lumps in my

breasts before, no larger than peas, and they had soon disap-
peared—harmless cysts. But one morning, as I lolled in bed enjoying
the weekend luxury of not having to go to the office, I rolled over and
felt what I thought was a lump in the mattress. When I investigated, I
found the lump, quite firm to the touch but painless, was in me!

The thought of cancer had never entered my mind in relation to
myself. It was always some unfortunate thing that happened to some-
one else. I felt in excellent health, and no member of my family had
ever had cancer. It seemed something remote. But I knew the impor-
tance of going immediately for a professional checkup, if only for the
peace of mind that would come from having the doctor assure me that
the lump was nothing to worry about and would go away. Breast can-
cer, one of the least dangerous of the genus if arrested early, is dis-
tressingly common among women.

Thank God I did go for a checkup right away. It saved my life. It
didn’t take the examining doctor at the clinic long to call in a specialist
on the staff. He pulled no punches, for which I am grateful. ““This con-
dition indicates surgery,’’ he said. “‘It is our only way of being sure. I
cannot overemphasize that you must not delay. If you wish to obtain
additional professional opinion from your own doctor, do so at once.”

No nonsense about it. I appreciated his directness, but I still felt as
though the bottom had dropped out of my world.

The surgeon I chose was kind and had a quiet composure that gave
me the reassurance that carried me through the next six weeks. He
credited me with enough intelligence to understand what he was telling
me, and I did my best to co-operate. The doctor-patient relationship is

a delicate balance of teamwork.

He explained that I would be given Pentothal Sodium as anesthetic.
This is a magic potion which, when injected into your veins, carries you
off to blissful unconsciousness and lets you wake up without a sick
hangover. The first step would be to perform what is called a ‘‘frozen
section.” This involves removing some of the suspected tissue, ‘‘freez-
ing” it instantly by chemical means to enable the pathologist to make a
slice of infinitesimal thinness. It is examined under a microscope for
guidance to further procedure. All this is done in the operating room
while you ‘‘snooze.”’

““You must trust me,’ I had been told. “If the lump is benign, you
will have a scar where I’ve cleaned it out and sewed up the skin. In
time, it will fade to almost nothing. But if the growth proves to be
malignant, it will probably require radical surgery —the removal of the
breast to ensure that all the spreading cancerous cells are removed.”’

The next few days, waiting for my date with a hospital bed, were the
worst I’ve ever known. I felt stunned. My independent and interesting
life as a career woman in New York City was suddenly coming apart. I
was a writer on the staff of one of the nation’s top magazines, I had an
attractive little apartment on the East River, and I had lots of friends.
Nothing had prepared me to face such a frightening prospect alone.

T was quite sure the biopsy would show that my problem was just
another harmless cyst of the kind I’d had before and I would emerge
from the hospital none the worse for wear. But what, I asked myself,

By ELAINE ST. MAUR HAYES

rst enemy:

carly}

diagnosis

are you going to do if you wake up after the operation and find that radical
surgery has been performed? Go to pieces? What will it feel like and how
will you behave? After all, there’s no guaranty in spite of your ever-present
optimism that it can’t happen to you. It just may. So face it!

That’s when I decided that if it did happen to me I would accept it
as a challenge and make the best of it.

Prayer, I found, calmed me and helped me to think clearly. At those
moments when my heart would pound wildly and my throat would
tighten with fear, I would sit quietly and pray—not always formal
prayers, though the familiar ones like the Lord’s Prayer and the
Twenty-third Psalm seemed to have new meaning and strength-giving
qualities. I remembered another: “‘God, give me the serenity to accept
that which cannot be changed, courage to change that which should be
changed, and the wisdom to distinguish one from the other.”

The first few days in the hospital are a foggy memory. After the
operation, I woke up in the recovery room. I felt no pain, only a warm
coziness as though I were in a cocoon. I wasn’t frightened or unhappy,
just lazy. After a while I realized I really was in a cocoon—my right
arm was strapped across my chest and I was enveloped in bandages
like a mummy. This ts it, I thought. It’s been done!

But, first things first. Now I must concentrate on getting well, I told
myself. The problem of what I look like and what I can or cannot do comes
later. Let’s not panic!

After a few groggy days, painless and timeless with the aid of drugs,
I began to brighten up. My exercise consisted of trips to the bath-
room—no bedpans for me! I began to enjoy food. With plenty of trial
and error, I learned to use my left hand instead of the right for things
like eating and combing my hair. I got interested in what was going
on in the corridor outside.

Finally the bandages came off and the stitches came out, all with no
more pain than a sharp pinprick. Then came laborious and dull exer-
cises. You have to trace little paths with your fingertips up the wall,
and you make a pencil mark at the height you reach each day. It’s
amazing how a thing so simple can seem so difficult, and how pleased
you can be when the mark moves higher.

The doctor gave me a small sandbag to swing around in circles to
stretch the muscles. This became the evening floor show when I
demonstrated my progress to my friends.

I had underestimated my friends, as we often do. I knew they were
busy with the constant demands of their professions and families and
hardly felt I could expect more than deep concern and sympathy from
them. As it turned out, I spent not one evening alone at the hospital.
Not an afternoon passed that someone didn’t phone. My name
ascended heavenward in numberless prayers. My room looked like a
flower show, and I had a fine selection of books, goodies and fancy
nightgowns. I shall always remember that the warm strength of friend-
ship offered at a difficult time is a golden gift. It should be accepted with
grace and savored with gratitude.

I began to occupy some of my time in the hospital by mentally re-
modeling my wardrobe. I decided which sleeveless dresses and blouses
would have cap sleeves added. And a real challenge to my designing
talents: how to cope with a bathing CONTINUED ON PAGE 90

agi meanest

"Ale SSO ep

The old dog lay asleep in the empty nursery.
There were no longer any children there to
keep him company. The days were gone when
he willingly became a seal, or a bull in a bull-
fight, or anything else that might be required
of him. All that was left to him now was a fa-
miliar woolly mat on which the winter sun
laid a comforting beam from time to time.

Lying there, the old dog dreamed of chasing
hares through the heather, of games of hide-
and-seek played in the rhododendron shrub-
beries before Serena and Amanda were too old
for such things. Then his long legs would
twitch with a galloping motion and he would
give short, excited yelps. And sometimes he
dreamed of the days when Serena no longer
pushed him away, but loved and petted and
spoiled him. Then he grinned in his sleep,
showing a tooth.

He was shut up in the nursery because there
was so much of him and because he was given
to lying in inconvenient places where people
fell over him. Mathilda, the maid, had gone
right over him carrying the shepherd’s pie the
day Commander Stephen Gault came back
from the Eastern tour, and that was very in-
convenient. Stephen was courting Serena. Mrs.
Blagdon particularly wanted everything to be
just so. Not cottage pie all over the carpet.

Serena was beautiful. She was brilliant, too,
making money doing modeling. Barney, the
old dog, had had not a little to do with her
suecess. They had made such a wonderful
eye-catching picture, the slim fair girl, the
huge dog. Press photographers never missed
a chance. People always noticed Serena, but
nobody noticed Amanda. She was only six-
teen. Like Barney, on auspicious occasions she
was in the way. Barney was too old, Amanda
too young for parties.

‘Something will have to be done about him
before long,’’ Serena said. Now she often eyed
the old dog distastefully. ‘‘He is really getting
quite disgusting,”’ she said, and she turned
him once and for all out of her room.

**How can you?” said Amanda, hating her.
‘He can’t help being old. One day you’ll be
old too.”’

Serena laughed, knowing that was non-
sense. She was nineteen and the sun was shin-
ing and she knew she would live forever.

For thirteen years Barney had slept at the
foot of her bed and had gone with her wher-
ever she went. He had been her gimmick. On
her dressing table she still had the picture of
him taken at the height of his show successes,
but he slept alone now in the old nursery and
she could not be bothered with him. Mostly

He found her in the nursery with Barney.
That is how it would be, he thought.
When you needed her, there she would be.

he made the best of a bad job, but there were
times when lonesomeness overcame him in
the dark hours. Then he howled dismally.

**We shall have to have that dog put down,”’
said Colonel Blagdon. “He kept me awake
again last night.”’

Amanda had been eating baked Alaska, her
favorite pudding, when her father said that.
She laid down her fork and spoon, choking,
and could not eat any more. The colonel no-
ticed it and went on to make matters worse.

**They do it quite painlessly nowadays, and
really it’s kindest. No good being sentimental
about these things once their back legs begin
to go.””

It was true about his back legs. They dith-
ered a bit and were no longer what once they
had been. Sometimes he still had spells of gal-
livanting puppyishness, when he bounced and
chased his own tail, but he soon had to sit
down.

Only that morning he had set out for a
walk over the moors with them. Serena had
been against taking him: ‘‘He’ll just be a
nuisance,”’ she said, but Stephen said, ‘‘Let
him come.”’ He was fond of the old dog, be-
cause that had been the start of it all: a sum-
mer’s day before he went off on his Eastern
tour, and a slim fair girl sitting in the front
seat of a car at the station, the huge dog be-
side her. In that moment he had known, the
way men do, that here was something beckon-
ing, though he had no notion what.

“Who is she?”’ he asked.

**Serena Blagdon,”’ his mother said. ‘‘She’s
a brilliant girl. You see her pictures every-
where. I prefer the little one myself.”

But she did not discourage him because she
wanted him to marry. A sailor is better with
an anchorage at home. She asked them all
over to tea the following day, and Barney
came too. In those days, where Serena went,
there he went also.

All through that golden summer Stephen
had seen a lot of her. They were not actually
engaged, but Mrs. Blagdon hoped something
would come of it, for bonnie lads are few.
When his ship returned from the East, she
asked him down for Christmas.

So here he was. There was snow on the hills
and a nip in the air and they all set out over
the moor. Barney got as far as the bridge
across the river. Then he sat down.

**I told you so,”’ Serena said crossly. ‘‘He
must just wait here till we get back, that’s all.”’

“Come, fellah . . . come along, boy,”’
Stephen coaxed and Barney’s bright eyes said,
I'd love to, but I | CONTINUED ON PAGE 106

, al AEN AATESR

SUMMER
is in the air

and the hanging baskets that used to give an airlift-garden look to the
verandas, porches and sun parlors of Victorian houses are returning to
celebrate the new romantic revival in architecture and decoration which is
taking place indoors and out. Once again the enterprising florist and green-
house man will be able to furnish you with started baskets of ferns, fuchsias,
geraniums, lantanas, begonias, petunias and other plants that droop over
gracefully and take kindly to basket culture. You hang them from any over-
head support you like, wherever they will be out of the withering wind. All of
them are at their stunning best as conversation starters when suspended
like living chandeliers above the terrace where you entertain. And a good
drenching with the hose once or twice a day in dry weather is just about all
the care they require. What if they do drip a little! By RICHARD PRATT

The closest to orchidlike of all the basket plants are the Lloydii begonias in
the full-page picture. They come in pink, salmon, red, white; insist on shade.

The delicately pink-flowered plant attracting such charming attention
here is the hanging-basket geranium, grown especially for the purpose.

As graceful in baskets as the scrutiny they are enjoying at the left below,
petunias are profuse; also just about the easiest of basket plants to grow.

Like the great asparagus fern at the lower right, all the plants on these
two pages are grown in regular baskets of wire lined with sphagnum moss.

aot

;
| aos

CONANT

effects

Once judged to be Nature’s finest cure-all, the sun now turns out
to be nothing more than a friendly enemy. How you handle your
contacts with it can make you either its beneficiary with a lovely
golden tan or its victim with dried-out prematurely aged skin. The
very way the sun tans your skin is in itself an aging process, since
it thickens the outer horny layer of skin. The darker the tan, the
deeper the thickening and hardening process reaches. In time the
connective tissues are damaged and your skin can lose its natural

softness and elasticity. Happily, makeup puts your complexion

An early version of sunglasses: yellow lenses in wire frames.

le summer eve

cooled with pale eye shadow; here a misty blue.

ST. JOHN

S BY LYNN

COLOR PHOTOGRAPH

summer makeup

PIX

EUROPEAN

By BRUCE CLERKE, Beauty Editor

S | S Take special heed of this twosome. They’ve been declared necessities by
une AS SC both medical and fashion authorities who are aware of the devastating

overexposure to the sun can have on your skin. Premature aging is the minimal of the

adverse conditions it produces, and

skin cancer, unfortunately, is not rare.

behind both a protective and a pretty-making screen. A tinted
emollient foundation will shade your skin from the sun and help
replace natural oils being constantly dried away by the sun and
heat. If you add face powder over your foundation you can add
still another layer of screening protection to your complexion.
Choose a sun-struck shade for both—tawny beige or honey color—

and your audience will judge it to be your natural summer finish.

Anytime you keep close company with the sun—at the beach,

on a boat, at a ball game or a picnic—you need to take extra

Princess Grace has her prescription ground into her dark glasses.

Sophia Loren’s curved glasses are a forecast of new-shapes.

Sunny corals and gay pinks top the lipstick lists for summer.

Good-quality lenses screen out harmful rays but not your audience.

precautions. Use a sun preparation that contains a chemical filter
to separate you from most of the burning rays of the sun. Many
of these products disappear completely and will work perfectly as
an underlining for your makeup.

Lipsticks, besides signing you up for a prettier smile, also pro-
tect your lips from parching and the lines that come with over-
exposure. Incidentally, if your lips are particularly susceptible to
sun blisters or if you develop slow-to-heal sores on your lips, be
sure to see your doctor. He’ll have definite recommendations to
make concerning this sometimes precancerous condition.

Eye makeup, once considered only as a party prop, now comes
out in the noonday sun to protect your eyes and the delicate skin
that surrounds them. For instance, mascara coats and thickens
your eyelashes and actually improves their ability to shade your
eyes from sunand glare. Eyeshadows supply cool insulation for eye-
lids, and when you use acreamy version it lends a bit of lubrication
inthe bargain. If you have problems with your makeup smudg-

ing in the summer you might try one of the new powdered eye

EUROPEAN

UBLI-PIX

Movie stars began it all; here, Joan Crawford behind dark glasses.

Audrey Hepburn finds oversize frames flattering to her small face.

shadows (you press them on with a puff or your fingertip) which
have the advantage of not being affected by heat or humidity. In
any case, since the skin around your eyes is virtually devoid of
natural oil glands, you should use an eye oil or cream every night.
Slide some on before you go off to the beach too.

Sunglasses, once a movie star’s favorite disguise, are now
standard summertime equipment for everyone. They help protect
your eyes from the infrared rays of the sun, and act as a barrier
against wind and glare as well.

You'll get the greatest protection from the darkest lenses (al-
though any color adds some protection; the deeper the shade of
glass, the greater the protection), and the quality of the lenses is
most important. And try on as many pairs as need be to find a
frame that is really comfortable for you. The trend seems to be
toward bigger, more shielding glasses that stand a bit away from
your face to allow for cooling air to circulate behind the frames. If
you normally wear glasses, consider having your prescription made

up into sunglasses for summertime use. END

cre

By NANCY CRAWFORD WOOD

x = Vr » In a shady backyard or a sunny patio,
spit-bai bec ue on a long stretch of beach or a tiny
terrace—no matter where, you can be sure the food will taste

a leo better, the appetites will be bigger, if the cooking’s done out-
oo of-doors. A hundred days of summer lie ahead in which to en-

t F l joy this favorite American pastime. What could be a
O AlN ) more glorious feast than a spit-barbecued leg of lamb?
Turned over glowing coals, basted with spicy barbecue sauce, it will sizzle to
tantalizing perfection while a creamy noodle casserole, hearty enough for the
hungriest, waits on the buffet table. Pretty plastic plates are stacked there on
individual trays. An exciting way to serve salad (here it’s crisp greens, arti-
choke hearts and tart red peppers) is in pearly abalone shells. This fresh-air
feast comes to a happy ending with wedges of cherry pie or cold fresh fruit.

SPIT-BARBECUED LEG OF LAMB
1 (7-8-Ib.) leg of lamb

Chili Barbecue Sauce:

¥% cup finely chopped onion Y%4 cup lemon juice

1 clove garlic, crushed 1% teaspoon grated lemon rind

% cup cooking oil 1 teaspoon salt

1 cup tomato puree 1 teaspoon chili powder

1 cup tomato sauce 1 tablespoon dry mustard

% cup firmly packed brown sugar Pinch rosemary

2 tablespoons vinegar
Prepare the sauce early in the day. Cook onion and garlic in oil until tender but
not brown. Add remaining ingredients and mix thoroughly. Bring to the boil-
ing point, lower heat and simmer for about 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Buzz in a blender or rub through a sieve. The fire should be started in plenty
of time to get a bed of ash-covered coals, briquettes or charcoal to cook over.
Wipe the lamb with a damp cloth. Insert the spit in a line with the bone and as
near to the bone as possible. Be sure the leg is evenly balanced on the spit so
it will rotate freely and rhythmically. Insert a metal meat thermometer into
the lamb if you wish. Attach the spit to the grill; it should revolve away from
you. Brush the leg all over with the barbecue sauce and continue to brush at
frequent intervals during the cooking process. Roast about 144-2 hours, or
until the meat thermometer registers 170° F., for rare lamb; 2-214 hours, or
until thermometer registers 175° F., for medium. Allow the meat to rest on
the spit for 10-12 minutes to retain juices before removing both spit and
thermometer. 8 servings. Note: A leg of lamb may be roasted on a rack
in an open roasting pan in a moderately slow oven, 325° F., 20-35 minutes
per pound. Baste it with the barbecue sauce for that same wonderful flavor.

COUNTRY NOODLE CASSEROLE

% pound sliced bacon 2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce

1 package (1-lb.) very fine egg noodles Dash liquid hot pepper seasoning
or vermicelli noodles 4 teaspoons salt

3 cups cottage cheese 3 tablespoons prepared horseradish

3 cups dairy sour cream 1 cup grated Parmesan cheese

2 cloves garlic, crushed Extra sour cream, if you like

2 onions, minced

Fry bacon until crisp. Drain on paper towels and crumble. Cook noodles in
boiling salted water until just tender, ‘‘al dente,” according to package di-
rections. Drain well. Mix all remaining ingredients, except Parmesan cheese
and extra sour cream, in a large bowl. Add noodles and bacon and toss with
two forks until well mixed. Turn into a deep 314-quart buttered casserole.

Cover and bake in a moderate oven, 350° F., for 30-40 minutes or until heated

through. Remove cover, sprinkle surface with %4 cup Parmesan cheese, broil
until golden. Serve remaining Parmesan to sprinkle over each portion, and
extra sour cream if you wish. Makes 12 servings.

MENU: Spit-barbecued leg of lamb, country noodle casserole, green salad with arti-
choke hearts, French bread with sweet butter, cherry pie or fresh fruit, coffee.

NORMAN KARLSON

er ks atau

MAN KARLSON

Ve Nu: Hot Con Somme Vadrilene

a
cold butte A magnificent
: whole cold sal-

( y] ) mon, cooked the day before, shimmers
~ ~ under its party glaze and is served with a
ay creamy avocado sauce. A chilled salad
i | 1c f ga getables, and refreshing
inger-ale rbet—icily delicious at

1 calories a helping—round

perfect warm-weather meal.

PatlO cit:

a o =e = ab a

, Glazed Salmon Jardiniere, Mixed-} egetable Salad in Lettuce Cups, French Cheese Sticks,

GLAZED SALMON JARDINIERE

1 (8-10-Ib.) salmon, cleaned,
head and tail removed

2 quarts court bouillon
2 egg whites and eggshells
2 envelopes unflavored gelatin
Wrap the salmon in a piece of cheesecloth. Line a
large roasting pan with heavy-duty aluminum foil;
use enough to extend up the sides of the pan.
Place salmon on foil and add court bouillon (use

Red food coloring

2-3 sprigs basil, tarragon
or chervil

1 hard-cooked egg

Cantonese Ginger-Ale Sherbet, Coffee

your favorite combination of ingredients). Cover
pan tight with lid or foil. Bake in a slow oven, 300°
F., for 144-2 hours, or until salmon flakes when
touched with a fork; or simmer salmon in court
bouillon in a large kettle, 10 minutes per pound. -
Cool. Lift fish from bouillon, remove skin and
back-fin bones. Trim off brown parts. Chill well be-
fore glazing. Strain court bouillon; save 1 quart and
heat with beaten CONTINUED ON PAGE 94

li
0)
)

Menu: Macaroni Milanese, Cabana Salad, Italian Bread Sticks, Lemon-Meringue Tarts or Fresh Fruit, Iced Tea

Our one hot dish—all the better after a
cool swim—is a luscious Italian-style
casserole of ground beef,

n
“Ot dis ] shell macaroni, plump to-

: matoes and zucchini. Young
LIX 7 tl spinach adds a cheerful green
f 1¢e€ to our crisp salad. For dessert,

make little lemon-meringue tarts
OO in the cool of the morning. Heat

MACARONI MILANESE

1 teaspoon basil
1 tablespoon oregano
6-7 drops liquid hot
pepper seasoning
teaspoon salt
pound zucchini, washed
and sliced
package (1-Ib.)
macaroni shells
pound cherry tomatoes
washed and stemmed

Y cup cooking oil
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1 pound mushrooms,
wiped and sliced
pound ground beef
can (12-0z.) tomato juice
can (2-|b.-3-0Z.)
Italian plum tomatoes
1 can (3-02.) flat anchovies
2 tablespoons chopped
parsley

the oil in a 2%-quart skillet, electric frypan or
saucepan. Sauté garlic and mushrooms until
golden. Add ground beef; break up with a fork and
brown lightly. Stir in tomato juice, plum tomatoes,
drained, chopped anchovies, parsley, basil, ore-
gano, liquid pepper seasoning and salt. Cover, sim-
mer over low heat for 1%-2 hours, or until flavors
are blended; stir occasionally. Add zucchini, cook

10-15 minutes or until CONTINUED ON PAGE 94

MAN KARLS

g: a basket packed with paper-thin plastic plates and matching paper napkins ($2 for 4 plates, 12 napkins). Bamboo-handled Bl

|.40 for a knife, fork and spoon). Straws are stored in a stoppered bottle; plastic refrigerator boxes hold individual salads. The wood pedestal ~}s

Outdoor dining calls for carefree accessories. A
Fourth of July cookout party or a casual family
Supper in the garden is more fun if you don’t
have to worry about a plate’s bouncing on the
ground, or food stains. You need lightweight,
unbreakable dishes; disposable napkins, wipe
clean cloth and mats, stainless-steel flatware.

as cake, That pineapple is really a plastic ice bucket ($9.98). The vacuum jug has a convenient handle. Checked cloth is plastic. ~¥

As our photographs show above and on page
91, it’s easy to find colorful, inexpensive wares
by scouting dime and department stores, Jap-
anese and Mexican shops. Choose different
kinds, and mix them as you would your china
and glass. Your settings can be so pretty that,
come winter, you will want to use them indoors.

Wl set for an outdoor barbecue: a teak serving cart ($45), accommodating a Japanese hibachi ($10) on its removable-tray top. If the wind shifts, the cart can be moved

lasily. Paper plates, cups and napkins pick up the colors of a canister filled with ice to keep raw vegetables crisp and, on the second shelf, of a ceramic casserole-in-a-basket
ind plastic salad bowls. Salad is served in a purple lacquer bowl ($2.98, plus $2.50 for matching servers). A walnut lazy Susan ($15) organizes sauce and dressing bottles.

| Start with several sets of paper plates and
lapkins, plastic dishes and mats so that you can
’xperiment with different color schemes. Add
brilliant colors with lightweight lacquer bowls
ind trays or sturdy agateware plates and mugs.

Give your serving platters and bowls a rest.
nvest in baskets for serving corn, fruit, rolls,

raw vegetables, and in cutting boards for dis-
pensing cold meats, cheeses, cake. Colorful,
airtight canisters can store and serve crisp ed-
ibles such as potato chips, cookies, crackers.

For giving your picnic glamour at night, use
candles in colored glass bottles (50 cents), or
plant a flower bed with tapers poked in the soil.

ee er

eee Ned tae wed ried

The transportation problem can be solved
with a picnic hamper that you keep packed and
ready to go. Or you might use a cart on which to
trundle food and dishes outdoors in one trip. Or
if you set up individual trays (see page 91), the
family can tote its own meals to the outdoor
table. By CYNTHIA KELLOGG

Re nt eT eager eee ce At

Eating out-of-doors is a delightful art—easy and fun to further with the
rainbow of colors and range of textures (from earthenware to milk
glass) available to anyone who can afford to barbecue a steak. Shame
on ‘‘second-best’’ china for nature’s first-class show. Choose the
colors for your outdoor tableware fearlessly. Anything goes with sky
blue and grass green. Fern green and royal blue are acool but dazzling
duet. Shocking pink or raspberry red creates a party mood. Sunny
yellows make eye-opening breakfast tables. Plain white, spiked with
vivid plates and napkins, has a clean, sophisticated look. Our seven
tables show you how to create color masterpieces with new, inexpen-
sive tablewares. Pick a plate to start your color scheme, then repeat its
colors strongly in accessories, and use lots of glass—nothing looks
cooler. Dramatize white or one-color china with a cloth in a smashing
color—perhaps even in a pattern. Buy fabric by the yard and hem for

your own custom-made one-of-a-kind cloths, mats and napkins. - Pisce :
kor chowder at a beach house, set a plastic-topped table in a nautical scheme of

TURE

white bowls ($1.25), blue plates ($1.50), blue-and-white napkins. Serve lem-
onade in glasses with bamboo-wrapped handles ($3.50), fruit in a glass snifter.

JAMES MOORE

.
, i ih
fed for your por hia hot-pink clothis cen-

This umbrella-shaded luncheon oasis in the garden shows you how to make inex-
pensive china look like a million dollars—match the cloth and accessories to the
color of its pattern. China, 5-piece setting, $7.95; shakers, $2.95; goblets, $2.

vith white ironstone (5-piece setti

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On a hot evening, use lots of cool glass in a pastel color scheme. You could start { Victorian summerhouse suggests the oi 4-fashioned charm of a fern-patterned
a 6 & I 886 J¢ yf @ fern-E

with ice-blue mats, add earthenware plates ($3), repeat their colors in blue cloth, which you could make. Use your sterling silver and white china, add blue
glass bowls and saucers, lilac goblets. Plated flatware; 6-piece setting for $6.50. glass—scalloped plates ($2), goblets ($1.50), a compote ($8.50) for flowers.

_— Res = bs 7” - — = oe _ — - - -
Saturday supper in the patio is festive with red plates ($1) and yellow napkins on Sunday brunch under an arbor tastes delicious against a yellow brick wall sur-
a black-and-white cloth. Individual black-and-white Mexican-pottery bowls ($2 rounded by greenery. Brown and yellow earthenware in a country pattern (5-

with lid) serve fruit, salad is in a matching bowl ($1.50), beans are in a pot. piece setting, $2.95) blends with a cotton runner, green glass plates ($1.25).

SUMMER
COVER-UPS

Our collection of summer cover-ups ranges
from the most glamorous chiffon stole trimmed
with matching ostrich feathers to the most
practical hand-knit cardigan. We think the
youngest look is the fluffy angora bolero that
doubles for an evening wrap. The newest look is
the sleeveless sweater hand-knit in variegated
yarn (perfect later over a long-sleeved silk
shirt). The prettiest look is the white cardigan
with a floral design knit in. Any one of these
charming cover-ups happily takes the place of a
coat and looks far prettier. | By NORA O’LEARY

PATTERN EDITOR
I Chiffon dress and stole, Vogue Design No. 5575.
2 White hand-knit cardigan, Journal Pattern No. 2965.
3 Sleeveless sweater, Journal Pattern No. 2966.
4 Fluffy angora bolero, Journal Pattern No. 2967.

Jersey and shantung, Vogue Design No. 5578.

See page 98 for Vogue dresses and order details.

LION EL KAZAN

BEGUILING

BY WILHELA CUSHMAN

Now ts the time for the prettiest lin-
gerie of your life. Gowns and peignoirs
of the finest batiste, falling in soft
drifts from feminine necklines .. .
some above the knees, others reaching
your pretty toes ... some in ruffled
cotton, others in sophisticated silks
and chiffons. Practically all cottons
wash and drip-dry in minutes. Your
garden of dreams includes also flower-
printed slips, petticoats and bras with
baby-blue ribbons, nighttime wisps

in pale yellow, lilac, illusive green.

ANSE...
Proenceornet ”

Pastel stripes, delightful for morning or eve-

ning. A Malouf design for Perfect Negligee.

The fashion of ruffles in a young breakfast-

time dottedswiss, ballerina length. By Flobert.

Full page: a pink-and-white printed silk

surah, abstract pattern. Also a Malouf design.

JOHN STEWART

BRIDAL AND
BEGUILING

*
‘
é

Left: swiss-batiste gown and peignoir, soft
and full, with sweetheart-rose embroidery.

Below: kneesgruffle gown in checked cotton,
also for breakfast. Both are by Munsingwear.

Above: sheer and summery—pale yellow
dotted-swiss gown and peignoir by Fischer.
Ribbon-beaded bra and petticoat: bra of ny-
lon satin with Lycra back by Ferreras for

Warner; lace petticoat by Ferreras for Laros.

Right: yellow and green—new colors in Van

Raalte’s nylon-tricot gowns and peignoirs.
Full page: gown and romantic peignoir with
a hood in swiss batiste. Sylvia Pedlar for Iris.

For more news on ‘“‘under’’ fashions, see page 80

PHOTOGRAPHED AT ROUND HILL, MONTEGO BAY, JAMAICA

How

dress well
on
practically
nothing!
by

Bet

Hart

_ Seaside
Cparales

For glorious, salty weekends, and her
precious vacation, Barbara Journal
chooses clothes as bright as her mood.
Chalk white to accent with bright colors;
practicality that will still dazzle a male
eye! She’ll want to dress for sailing
or dancing out of the same small suit-
case. The basis for it all: separates—
in fabrics that need minimum care.

Separates in sea blue dotted in white.
Full skirt has unpressed pleats, blouse
has convertible collar to change with ac-
cessories. (Todaycrystal-blue beads are
added.) She could fall overboard in this
silky blend of Dacron and rayon, drip-dry
in an hour. Skirt, $9.95; blouse, $5.95.

4 3
“ate

¥ tl

(Top right) Is there anything crisper
than sharkskin on a Summer’s day?
White slacks have side closing, immacu-

‘ oem es = aameit , —eeeeeeunmeiemesties late fit. Today Barbara Journal wears the
RRR 8S) eet ihe olen gs SUR ee LT Saree ee Tes ae i Beg fo es polka-dot blouse, boldly adds emerald-
nea pee ig rae Sez green scarf. White Arnel slacks, $7.95.

For evening, Barbara’s polka-dot skirt
goes formal when combined with white
shoulder-buttoned blouse. Blouse is
same fabric as slacks, could be worn
as an overblouse with them too. $4.95.

A homely all-American favorite, the
sweat shirt, makes any landlubber
stunning when it’s in bright pink. A
marvelous contrast with white slacks,
is a perfect beach cover-up. $3.95.

A bathing suit in wide turquoise and
white stripes has little-boy shorts, a
molded bodice. Important land note:
it's a perfect fit out of water. $15.95.

Photographs by Frances McLaughlin-Gill
Separates by Majestic

Sweat shirt by Ship ’n’ Shore

Bathing suit by Jantzen

souper san

‘Chili Franks Prepare 1 package ‘brown an
serve” French bread* as directed on package; split
and toast. Meanwhile, combine 1 can Campbellis
Bean with Bacon Soup, % cup water, 14 cup agehuy,
Ye tsp. chili powder, 8 thinly sliced
frankfurters. Spread mixture evenly

- over toasted/bread surfaces; cover edges

* = completely. Broil about 4 in. from heat,

7 min. or till hot. Garnish with pickle
relish or pickles. 6 to 8 delicious soup
servings to/please your lucky family. “————

*Or split and togst | large loaf French bread or 6 frankfurter rolls.

Tuna Treat Prepare | package “brown and serve”
French bread*; split and toast. Meanwhile, combine
1 can Campbell’s Cream of Celery or Mushroom
Soup, 7-0z. can tuna (drained and flaked), 2 hard-
cooked eggs, chopped. | tbsp. chopped

pimiento. Spread mixture evenly over

toasted bread surfaces; cover edges
completely. Broil about 4 in, from heat,

7 min. or till hot and bubbly. Garnish

with 2 sliced hard-cogked eggs and 2

tbsp. chopped parsley. 6 to 8 servings:

wiches...

‘. quick ‘n easy with Campbell's Soup

size

Beef Eater Prepare | package “brown and serve”
French bread*; split and toast. Mix 1% Ib. ground
beef, 1 can Campbell’s Tomato Soup, 4 cup finely
chopped onion, | tbsp. prepared mustard, | tbsp.
Worcestershire, 1 tsp. prepared’ hofse-
radish, 1 tsp. salt. Spread mixture evenly

amily-

lover toasted bread surfaces; cover
iedges completely. Broil about 4 in. from

heat, 12 to 14 min, Top meat with 2
sliced tomatoes and 6 to 8 slices cheese.
Broil till cheese melts, 6 to 8 servings.

72
THE LONELY LIFE

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 43

in the patent field. His three women were
strangling him. The more yielding mother was,
the more suffocating the marriage became.

When I was seven years old, the whole fam-
ily went to dinner at the Copley Plaza in
Boston. Mother and Bobby and I were going
to Florida for a vacation and Father was seeing
us off. It was festive with a string orchestra,
hot rolls on a silver wagon, and lemon sherbet.

The scene is still vivid to me. Mother and
Daddy picked at their food and looked pale.
Daddy was attentive and kind. Ruthie was
quiet. It was a shadow play that ended when
Daddy took us to the railway station. I re-
member he kissed Mother good-bye.

We all looked out the window and waved
to Daddy. He looked sad as he waved back. I
can still see him—standing alone, -tall and
thin, as the train began to moye. He stood on
the platform like a statue, receding, and then
disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

Ruthie put her arms around us and watched
the outskirts of Boston rush by. After we ar-
rived in Florida she told us that Daddy
wouldn’t live with us anymore. Bobby cried
her eyes out. I started planning our life with-
out him, but I still cry if I hear a string or-
chestra.

Once a decision has been made, | go on
from there. Daddy didn’t want us.

When we returned from Florida, we lived in
Newton. Daddy’s monthly alimony check
wouldn’t go far and Mother decided she
would have to go to work to give us a proper
education. Bobby and | would have to be sent
to a boarding school, since Mother would be
working all the time.

Grandmother, who took the Aflantic
Monthly and swore by it, found an ad for a
school that met the necessary requirements:
Crestalban, a farm school in the Berkshire
Hills. The school was singular, small, health-
ful and in the country, which delighted both
Mother and Grandmother.

Mother took a deep breath, put us in school
and left her world for the jungle. Sheltered as
she had been, this took courage. Through
Grace Hospital in New York City she found a
job as governess for three little boys on 78th
Street (the same street I live on now). Thus
began the years of struggle to raise her chil-
dren. Being separated from us was hard; but
there was no other way.

If Ruthie was impressed with Crestalban,
so—later—were we. It was high up in the
Great Divide between the Hoosac and Hoosa-
tonic rivers. Huge red barns surrounded the
long, white farmhouse. A brown-shingled
schoolhouse was across the way. In winter all
distances were covered by sleigh.

Along with our studies, we were taught
sewing, cooking and housecleaning. Crestal-
ban was on a farm with pigs, cows, horses and
chickens. The food was good and plentiful,
and at lunch French was spoken exclusively.

Eighteen hours of every day were spent out-
of-doors. We had school out-of-doors and we
slept outdoors on a sleeping porch. | telieve
my basic great health came from my years at
Crestalban. My greatest delight were the
naked snow baths I used to take every morning
when possible. We had a Spartan routine and
Mr. Emerson’s self-reliance was the order of
each day. I adored it.

i the evenings, we would sit around the fire
and Miss Whiting, the principal, would read
aloud to us while we did our mending. There
were only thirteen students and we were soon
a family. Bobby spent half her time denying
that our parents were divorced and the other
half convincing herself she wasn’t lying. Her
fantasy had Daddy out of town working for
the United States Government and eager to
rejoin us. She continued this through our col-
lege days. In Yankeeland in that day, divorce
was considered a disgrace—something to be
hidden. :

I remember well that when Mother left us

that first day of school the full meaning of our
new life hit us. That first night at Crestalban,
Bobby and I clung to each other like orphans
in a storm.

My first Christmas there [ was Santa Claus.

It was my role for three years. The third time

was almost the last. The tree was lighted by
real candles, as there was no electricity at the
school. That dates me! Under the tree were
our gifts from the faculty and for one another.
My curiosity got the better of me, and when
I tried to find my presents the cotton batting
on the sleeve of my costume caught fire. I
started shaking it to put it out and managed
only to spread the flame to my beard.

Suddenly I was screaming in terror. I heard
voices, felt myself being wrapped in a rug and
then silence all around me. Everyone was quite
naturally panicked. When the rug was taken
off, I decided to keep my eyes closed. Ever the
actress! I would make believe I was blind.
“Her eyes!” A shudder of delight went
through me. I was in complete command of
the moment. I had never known such power.

I eventually opened my eyes, to the relief of
everyone. Bobby, who had been much im-
pressed when she read The Little Match Girl,
had turned away with tears streaming down
her face expecting to find her sister a pile of
ashes. The Whiting sisters told me to be a
good sport and not spoil the Christmas
festivity.

W. left on the train the next morning for
New York and our Christmas holiday. When
we arrived at Grand Central Station Ruthie
recognized only Bobby and the coat and hat
she had bought me. The blisters by now were
filled with cinders from the train.

A Japanese intern at the New York Hospital
tenderly removed all the cinders with a tweezer
and then removed all the burned skin. I
looked brand-new before he greased and
bandaged my face. He told Ruthie that there
was only one way I would not be scarred for
life: if my face was kept greased night and day.
Ruthie knew whata scarred face would mean to
my life. I can never thank her enough for four
weeks of sleepless nights.

Uncle Paul, who was to become assistant
rector of Grace Church and then minister of
Trinity Episcopal in New York City, was then
the rector of the Episcopal church in White
Plains. We stayed with his family for Christ-
mas. Then Mother had to return to Miss
Bennett’s School in Millbrook, New York,
where she was by now a housemother, and
we returned to Crestalban. The next year
Ruthie decided that this was the last time we
would be separated. She took the bull by the
horns and enrolled in Clarence White’s
School of Photography in New York City—
on 128th Street. She enrolled us in P.S. 186
and moved us into a one-bedroom apartment
at 144th Street and Broadway.

When Bobby and I saw the apartment with
its dreary furniture and the sleazy pink lace
curtains on the windows, we were stricken. We
held our tongues and then hid in the bathroom.
As if on cue we burst into tears. We didn’t
want to hurt Mother’s feelings.

“Do you really think Mother thinks this is
beautiful?”

“How can she do this to us?”

What little snobs we were. We also had lived
in the country for three years, and New York
took a lot of getting used to—the New York
that Ruthie could afford.

P.S. 186 looked like a big, brown fortress.
Forbidding, impersonal. Each crowded class-
room had fifty children—quite a change from
Crestalban. When the classroom doors rolled
back for assembly, the mass of children was
terrifying to me. I can still smell the steam
heat mingled with chalk and children.

Bobby and I both felt deceived and lost, but
we adjusted and came to enjoy going to school
there. The maze of middy blouses and bloom-
ers became Esperanzas and Esthers. The
knickers and Norfolk jackets were Seymour
and Nuncio. Foreign to us, yes, but warm and
friendly. When they asked us to go roller
skating down the great hill from Broadway to
Riverside Drive, we went. A right turn would
extend the trip down a long incline parallel to
the Hudson. For two cents we could buy
paper cones filled with shaved ice and have it
colored with sweet tonics of any hue or com-
binations we chose. A little Italian man with
an umbrellaed stand on wheels would seek us

out to sell his rainbowed wonders. How he
made a profit I will never know.

Bobby and I liked our new friends and
eventually adjusted to life in New York. By

December, when the hill made perfect sled-
ding, we all had a glorious time.

I enrolled in the cooking class at P.S. 186
and entered a citywide contest the New York
Board of Education was sponsoring. I chose to
make cookies for the contest.

My cookies were going to be the holy wafers
with which I would commune with the greats
of the world. I thought of nothing but cookies.
It was my first contest. There were thousands
of entries; I won first prize. I was in seventh
heaven. The will to win was the one ingredient
not to be found in Fanny Farmer.

Bobby and J attended Sunday school at the
Congregational church nearby. Our beautiful
teacher was the stand-in for Lillian Gish at
the Biograph studios and her name was Una
Merkel. I had a real crush on her.

During that winter I became a Girl Scout. I
became the most dedicated Girl Scout that
ever lived. I would have tripped an old lady in
order to pick her up. I have never embraced a
cause in my life. I tackle it. So with the Scouts.
I brought home dozens of badges of merit
and spread goodness, cheer and patriotism
throughout Manhattan. In no time I was a
golden eaglet with top honors. I also became a
patrol leader. | worked my patrol like a top
sergeant and I’m afraid I developed the rep-
utation of one. When our patrol was chosen
to march in the competitive dress parade for
Mrs. Hoover at Madison Square Garden, we
won. Now I could relax. I had to be the best.
Nothing less ever satisfied me.

During this period, Ruthie’s close friend,
Myrtis Genthner, was often with us at the
apartment on 144th Street. Myrtis was a great
reader. She knew of my love of reading and
helped me expand my taste. She helped me
over the bridge between the Bobbsey Twins

A life of ease is a difficult pursuit.
WILLIAM COWPER

and the Corsican Brothers. The next bridge to
the Karamazovs was easier. It was Myrtis who
suggested, while she was reading Balzac’s La
Cousine Bette, that I change the spelling of my
name “to set you apart, my dear.’ Hence
Betty became Bette. The fact that M. Balzac’s
Lisbeth Fischer was a horror didn’t come to
my attention until I read the book some time
later.

When summer carne, Ruthie sent us to
Camp Mudjekeewis in Fryeburg, Maine.
Miss Perkins and Miss Pride were the owners.
We swam, rode, went on canoe trips, hiked up
mountains and along country roads. A camp
in Maine is a glorious experience and Mother
gave it to us for three summers.

Miss Pride taught piano in East Orange,
New Jersey, during the winter and Bobby, who
had done so well under her tutelage, was given
a chance to continue her studies. We now
moved to East Orange. I was to have gradu-
ated from P.S. 186 in January, so I was six
months short of high-school requirements.
When I discovered that the Jersey girls who
had failed to graduate from their own ele-
mentary schools because of bad grades were
taking entrance exams in hopes of starting
with their own classes, I got an idea. I went to
the high school and asked to see the principal
without telling Ruthie. I wanted to surprise
her by passing entrance examinations for high
school. The principal interviewed me—and as
a result of my grades and the high regard for
the New York school system, he gave me my
chance.

Armed with a cheese sandwich and a glass
of milk furnished by a thoughtful monitor, I
took the day-long examinations.

That afternoon, Bobby had long since re-
turned home from her public school and
Ruthie started to worry about me. She knew
I could take care of myself. But we had been
in the city for only a day. At five o’clock I
rushed in triumphantly. I had passed the
examinations and I was a full-fledged fresh-
man.

I did not find living in East Orange stimu-
lating, however. I felt a tugging inside I could
not explain to anyone, least of all myself.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

We were living ina boardinghouse. Our
rooms were on the top floor and we ate in the
“dining hall’? downstairs. This was our first
experience in a boardinghouse.

I escaped into my books after school
Otherwise I was trapped. My energies were
growing and there was no suitable outlet for
them. My drive took the form of plain willful
ness. I was not always the most agreeable of
daughters. In fact, I was being a bad sport.

Ruthie, as usual, was making the best of
everything and handling me with kid gloves.
She recognized her own will in me and de
cided—after conferring with a doctor—that I
was “a high-spirited racehorse and needed a:
free rein.” She decided to let nature take its:
course. She had little choice. The filly became
a bucking bronco.

I couldn’t help the way I was acting. I felf,
like a misfit. I longed for something. M
imagination took me round the world and [
was stuck in a boardinghouse in East Orange,
New Jersey.

Mother made plans to unstick me. Soon we
were off, bag and baggage, back to New Eng-
land. We stayed with my Uncle Myron and
Aunt Mildred in Newtonville for a few days
until Mother found us a place of our own. ~

{i was entered immediately into the high
school in Newton. I had the great good for-
tune on that first day, as a stranger to all, to
hit a home run at baseball practice. I was im-
mediately “rushed” by one and all, to be part
of their gang. I have to add that was the one
and only home run I ever hit during my two
years at Newton High.

Mother rented an apartment in Newton,
scrounged around for people to photograph
by sending out announcements saying, “‘Por-
traits with a personality—at your home or
mine.” :

A short time after entering Newton High
School I attended my first dance in the gym-
nasium. I was apprehensive, as I was a new-
comer and had no beau of my own. I remem-
ber well my corduroy jumper, my long yellow
hair worn simply and hanging down my back,
flat shoes, plus little or no dancing experience.
I arrived in a bewildered state, and stood
around for what seemed like hours praying
someone would ask me to dance. Finally a
sympathetic soul, aware of my predicament,
did. We danced and danced and danced—not
from his choice. Those were the days of ‘‘cut-
ting in” and no other brave soul came to his
rescue. I finally caught our reflection in a mir-
ror and saw him gesturing wildly to the stag
line to be rescued. At this point I pleaded
something—I do not remember, probably to
powder my nose—and fled home.

I burst into the apartment and had hyster-
ics. “Ruthie, ’'m a wallflower. I'll be one all
my life.’ After calming me down, and hear.
ing my complete tale of woe, she very cheer-
fully said, ““Bette, I think it’s time you put your
hair up and started to dress like a young lady.
Your little-girl days are over.”

The next party I went to was in the evening.
I came home from school and found hanging
in my closet a long white full-skirted chiffon
dress, trimmed in turquoise, with a low neck-
line—for me—just below the collarbone.
Grandmother was there when I first tried it on.
I was ecstatic. Grandmother, however, said,
“Ruth, you might just as well let Bette go to
the party in a nightgown.”

Not even this dampened my spirits. That
evening, hair piled high, cheeks bright pi
with excitement, a long chiffon party dress, I
really looked in the mirror for the first time—
and can well remember being horrified when I
admitted to my image, “You're pretty.”’ I was
fourteen and an unqualified triumph that.
evening. Every dance was taken; I was “cu
in” on over and oyer; and even acquired two
beaux that night—Gige Dunham and John
Holt. Gige was the winner that evening—he
walked me home.

How vivid it all still is. The harvest moon,
bright orange, my own excitement, “the new-
ness of my first conquest. Gige asked if he
could be my beau. I was dizzy with happiness.
I must have said yes—judging by the dance
programs and poems I have in my teenage
scrapbook, signed with the name “Gige.”

CONTINUED ON PAGE 74

bread pudding
goes high style
with the tree:
ripe flavor of

DEL MONTE
PRACHIS

taste so go

add !4 cup sugar

just till stiff an d
Det Monte P

mod. hot oven (378
the meringue. Se

You'll be delig
Peaches, always-

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 72

The social life in Newton was active and I
merrily rushed to sleigh rides, hayrides, foot-
ball games, picnics and dances in a lovely
glow. I adored dancing always; and was for-
tunately a good dancer. Now no one was
frantically signaling the stag line. Rereading
the love letters I received during this period,
also carefully saved in my scrapbook, I am
convinced I slayed them. I had “‘it.”

Love was a very real thing to me. I moved
from crush to crush, always declaring myself
eternally involved with the current one. Mother
would attempt to break it up by inviting the
current flame to be our house guest for a few
days. Overexposure would usually accomplish
what Ruthie set out to do—I would come run-
ning to her. ““When is he going to go home?
Will he never leave?’ It never occurred to me
why Ruthie had invited them in the first place.

It is a fact—I zealously guarded my own
chastity. I also was a tease. On sleigh rides I
would take a flashlight and wait until a couple
were really in the throes of necking—and then
flash it on them. I had been brought up ac-
cording to what age I was at the moment. At
fourteen beaux meant dancing, skating, toast-
ing marshmallows, and so on. Anything be-
yond this I felt unsuitable to my years. I was
part of a gang—and interestingly enough,
found the boys of my age delighted that I was
interested in something besides necking.

Bowby was even more dazed with my new
life than I. I would catch her often just staring
at me. I was the belle of every ball. I joined
every club at school. I even organized a girls’
football team. We were called the “Coffee-
Colored Angels” for some forgotten reason
and I was right tackle. Ruthie was happily ig-
norant of this, and Bobby was sworn to se-
crecy. We had sweat shirts with large C.C.A.’s
on them. I hid mine in the closet.

The boys on the high-school varsity team
laughed at us. Furious, we challenged them to
referee a game. They roared with laughter,
but they accepted.

It was a rainy day and we found ourselves
playing in mud. The C.C.A.’s awed and horri-
fied the varsity that day. We played football,
we did. The next day a hysterical mother called
Ruthie to say this had to stop. It did. That was
the end of the Coffee-Colored Angels. We re-
tired undefeated. I emerged head unbowed;
we felt the C.C.A.’s had won the battle. The
varsity did not laugh at us—they knew we
were for real.

That spring Mother started thinking about
where we would spend the summer. Ruthie
was always the optimist and I never knew her
not to feel that tomorrow would bring us all to
the crest of the waves. I am just like her—and
thank her for this.

She ran across an ad in a Boston paper: “A
minister in Provincetown, on Cape Cod, will
give a housekeeper and family free board.”
What could be more ideal?

Ruthie answered the ad and received re-
sponse quickly. At the end of June we drove
off to the Cape barely visible in the maze of
valises, wicker baskets and photographic par-
aphernalia. One would have thought we were
the most carefree family in New England.

Our summer in Provincetown was fun. Our
Pastor Grant approved of us and we of him.
One thing for sure, we went to church every
Sunday.

That summer I met the local high-school
football star. Jim Allen was a next year’s Har-
vard freshman! \ was fifteen and never before
had had a prospective college man as a beau.

How wonderful that July was. And August.
I stood on the edge of life, and Bobby watched
with her earnest little face, her furrowed sun-
burned brow.

Bobby was always trying to catch up to me.
I was a natural leader—she a follower.

Mother earned our keep in the reverend’s
home in Provincetown. She cooked for him,
did his laundry, kept his house plus entertain-
ing our house guests, my beaux in particular—
Gige among them.

At the end of summer we returned to
Newton for my sophomore year at Newton
High. We lived that year on Lewis Terrace, in
a two-family house. We were on the top floor.
Mother continued her photography. I con-

tinued on my gay way with the friends I had
met the year before. I supplemented the family
income that year by posing for a sculptress on
Beacon Hill in Boston.

I posed for a statue of Spring! My only dif-
ficulty was with a male assistant of the sculp-
tress. He was, I know now, impersonal about
the whole thing. But to me it was torture.
Somewhere in Boston I stand—Spring!
Naked! Standing on one foot hours at a time
was not easy, but I was contributing to the
family exchequer. ;

The following year Ruthie decided to put
Bobby and me ina boarding school once more.

Northfield Seminary was unique in that all
races, creeds, colors were admissible. A sound
reason for a choice of school. I remember with
pleasure my roommate, Ducky Seafer. I re-
member with displeasure much else. Suffice it
to say it was a bad choice for the Davis girls.
We tried to write Ruthie happy letters, but we
did not fool her at all. One great day she ar-
rived at school and in less than a shake of a
lamb’s tail we were whisked away. We felt we
were being released from a jail sentence.

We plunked ourselves once more on Uncle
Myron and Aunt Mildred for the Christmas
holidays, at the end of which Ruthie decided to

NEXT MONTH

Summer is a time to savor—to visit with yourself, to refresh your spirit. You’re dif-
ferent in summer: prettier, freer, eager for new experience; you'll spend long golden
afternoons reading and thinking about the Jouwrnal’s stunning Summer Issue. . . .

THE LUSCIOUS LOOK AND TASTES
OF SUMMER~ green shady hours in
gardens, pools afloat with water lilies,
the haze of distant birches. Rattan
chairs on the terrace, friends talking
over frosty glasses of lime punch from
the Bahamas. Then, with the dusk and
the flicker of fireflies, a sumptuous out-
door supper of steak, sweet corn slath-
ered with chive butter, bright tomatoes
happily mated with sour cream, and
Devonshire Apricots for dessert. Is
there a pleasanter way to entertain?

The absolutely perfect
dress to drift through sum-
mer cool as ocean spray is
THE
FOREVER
DRESS

classically simple, simply
classic! You'll look lovely
after you’ve dipped into
our summer beauty tips
on hairdos to beat the
humidity, the fresh face,
pep-up exercises, and
appetizing lunches under
three-hundred calories.

A tale of two sisters, funny, tragic and unbearably exciting.
ALL THE TEA IN CHINA, condensed novel by Katharine
Topkins,. will leave you spent, shaken in your hammock.

FEMININITY —
DO
YOU
HAVE
Tet?

Do you care? Of
course you care,
and so does your
husband. We dare
you to resist tak-
ing the quiz. How
feminine are you?

A DAY WITH
DR. SPOCK? Yes,
mother, there is a
Dr. Spock, and
the brilliant cam-
era of Henri Car-
tier-Bresson re-
veals him as he
lives and breathes.
You'll even meet
him as he cavorts
on ice skates (on
an indoor rink)!

EVERY WOMAN’S HOPE FOR
PEACE is shared by every man, but it
took a woman to say it. An American
mother of three, she was a teenaged girl
in Dresden, Germany, when the bombs
fell. What was it like? What does she
say to her children as she senses the
world drifting toward holocaust again?

103 WAYS
TO
KEEP
COOL?
Believe it or not,
our trio of ge-
niuses has found
them! Margaret
Davidson, kitchen
connoisseur; John
Brenneman,home-
building expert;
and Cynthia Kel-
logg, who deco-
rates the coolest,
will clue you in on
vital summertime
matters like the
absolutely perfect
way to aim a fan.

WHY DID THEY STEAL? Their par-
ents were just as shocked and puzzled
as you'll be when you read the true
story of 17 boys who stole for thrills.

HEAT LIGHTNING—BETTE
DAVIS. Part II of the slam-bang auto-
biography everybody is talking about.

More surprises in store: THERE’S A DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE, latest news and
discoveries in medicine; THE HOSTESS WHO MAKES EVERYTHING LOOK
EASY —in other words, the summer cool hostess; a delicious morsel of wit by Jane
Goodsell; Harlan Miller’s gone out on a limb as a handyman; and Dr. Spock writes

on stepchildren.

Altogether a luscious summer Journal, an issue we predict will span the days of July
and August for you like a good and trusted friend.

LADIES’ HOME JOURN

send her two daughters to Cushing Acader
in Ashburnham, Massachusetts, a coedu
tional school she had once attended.

I felt at home at Cushing immediately.
doubt a lot of my enthusiasm had to do
the presence of males. Bobby, who was ne
so quickly at home in new surroundings,
not love Cushing as I did. She was always
my shadow. Nowadays two such totally ¢
ferent members of one family would not be
the same school. Trying to keep up with
popularity was detrimental to Bobby dur
these years. As usual, I became part of
activities. My goal, however—and I alw.
had to have a goal—was to be leading lad
the senior play. I had two years to make

I was beginning to understand the machi
tions of jealousy in my first year at Cushigs
was a good student, I was popular with
boys, I was president of my sorority—in Ya
into everything. I was too much. I was start
to make enemies, through no real fault of
own. It has ever been thus through my ent
life. My greatest heartbreak was the elect
for president of the senior class. I will never fi
get Dr. Cowell, our principal, standing on‘
platform in the assembly hall and reading
results of the voting. Bette Davis: one vo
this was a beginning of self-examination a
guilt. I found it cruel and hard to understa
I was thought to be “stuck up.” I wasn’t. Ly
just sure of myself. This is and always has be
an unforgivable quality to the unsure.

One day early in the school year, Dr. Co
sent for me to come to his office. He sugges
that I help earn my own way through sch
by waiting on table. He had nothing but pra
for Ruthie’s efforts in our behalf, with whic
genuinely agreed. I thanked him, left the o
and decided to write Mother immediately,
cure in the knowledge she would never we
her daughter to be a waitress.

To my amazement, a week later I recei
my very wise Mother’s reply: “By all mea
Bette; how wonderful of you. Thank you
much.”

At that point in my life I was very aware
one’s station in life. A waitress was on o|
level, a doctor another, and so on. I sat in1
room for hours contemplating what I thoug
would be my disgrace in front of my fell
students.

Next morning, up at six, I strode down t
hill to the dormitory dining room assigned
me. With head high and a forced smile on 1
face, I started my career as a waitress at Cu:
ing Academy. After the initial shock, I start
to learn how to be a good waitress—the best
and found pleasure in serving well. I also fo
friends I had never known before. Girls w
had mistaken my efficiency and absorption
whatever I was doing as a sign of conceit lik}
me for the first time.

As I think of Cushing, I am swept from oa}
memory to another in a kind of montage.
sorority debates—which I won. I had inherit
from Daddy an ability along these lines, p’
my ever-present doggedness to win. The ma
hours of talks at meetings of the Christi
Association, of which I was the president.
most famous of these meetings was attend¢
by invitation from us, by young men of t
freshman class at Dartmouth. It was indeeg
heated and frank discussion period, dealiy
with sex. Our guests entered into the spirit
Our earnestness and all benefited. They |
turned to college feeling those Cushing gi
were no sissies. Actually it was a revolutiona
idea and a rewarding one for all present. ;

My montage of Cushing, however, revol\
around becoming Ham’s girl. I finally mari
Ham. A senior and therefore at school o
one year of my two there, he was a lone wq
as far as the girls were concerned. He ¥
working his way through school by playi|
piano for our Saturday-night dances and tc
me later he had often noticed me at the danc\
but never imagined I would find him attr¢
tive. Ham was tall, lean, dark, curly-hair
with a funny nose, beautiful brown eyes.

I first got to know Ham when he was giv
the job of putting on an evening’s entertai)
ment for the school. I showed up for r
hearsals—he suggested I sing a song. ]
chose a popular tune of the day, Gee, I

CONTINUED ON PAGE

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 74

Mighty Blue for You. What a prophetic title.
Ham sang Paddlin’ Madeline Home. His was a
truly beautiful voice. His only handicap for
success was his lack of drive to reach the top.

Ham graduated that year. I have the pro-
gram—each dance has an X. I danced every
dance with him at the graduation ball. The
night before I had played Lola Pratt in Booth
Tarkington’s Seventeen; Ham had played
Willie. Rehearsals meant, of course, we saw a
great deal of each other. The graduation song
was Moonlight and Roses and the current
great song of the day was Always. These were
our songs—they still are mine.

I often wonder if when Ham hears them
they make him travel back through the years
also to that graduation in 1924, when we were
so gloriously in Jove. My mother requested
Always to be played at her funeral last July.
How I cried—for all of us, each dead in
different ways.

Mother was faced once more with the prob-
lem of where we would spend the summer.
Ruthie and her sister Mildred had in the
spring been on a motor trip in the area of
Peterborough, New Hampshire. They were
enchanted with the town.

Ruthie found out there was no photographer
in this town—that Mariarden, a school of
dance and the theater, was on the outskirts of
town. She could very probably photograph
events at the school. Early next morning
Mother started the search for a house and,
with her usual deserved good fortune, found
a lovely two-hundred-year-old New England
house—fireplace, brick floors and all.

Mother picked us up at Cushing after the
close of school and drove us to Peterborough,
car filled as always with the usual rigmarole,
including our Boston terrier, Babs.

On our arrival at the magnificent house,
Bobby and I ran from room to room inspect-
ing the fireplaces and antiques that would be
perfect “‘backgrounds for my _ subjects.”
Mother hung out her sign, “The Silhouette
Shop,” and thus our summer began.

Mother was stimulated by Peterborough.
Bobby would be placed with a fine music
teacher and Bette would study dancing at
Mariarden. Next day off she went to Mrs. Guy
Currier, director of Mariarden, to enroll me
for the season.

Roshanara, the dancing instructress, was
actually a Britisher named Jane Cradduck. She
was a brilliant dancer and also a designer who
had done the George Arliss production of The
Green Goddess. | auditioned for her and she
accepted me. The tuition was prohibitive, how-
ever, and I was placed more frugally with
Marie Ware Laughton’s Outdoor Players to
learn nature dances a la Isadora Duncan.

One day during one of my dancing classes,
on the green lawn circled by pines, Roshanara
visited us. I can still see her, dark and stately,
moving with that incredible grace.

Te next day Ruthie received a letter: ““My
dear Mrs. Davis: Would you bring your daugh-
ter to see me at four o’clock today, Tuesday.”

I read Mother’s mind. “‘Now stop dreaming,
Mother. She just can’t believe I was that bad
and wants to suggest that I take up crocheting.”

But we were there at four sharp. Rosh-
anara’s dark eyes passed over me like a warm
breeze.

“Mrs. Davis, I want Bette for a student. I
saw her dance yesterday. She has talent.”

Her crisp pronunciation was as surprising as
her pronouncement. Ruthie’s heart started to
pound. Mine all but stopped.

Roshanara continued. “I do not mean to
embarrass you. I know you are short of funds.
Your daughter Barbara can play the piano.
We need a rehearsal pianist three hours a day.
I will pay Barbara five dollars a week and
waive Bette’s tuition.”

Bobby was thrilled with the opportunity to
contribute to the family exchequer and very
expertly played for Roshanara’s classes that
summer.

I worked harder for the next eight weeks
than I had ever thought possible. Heat or no
heat, we danced eight hours a day every day
and I loved every minute.

Mariarden was a magnificent setting for out-
door drama. The E. E. Clive Players of Boston

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAI _

performed for part of the season in the out}™”
door theater. The rest of the time the theate) we
was at Roshanara’s disposal. :
Two weeks later, I made my first appearance e :
with her company. I was one of the dancing}™!
fairies in Midsummer Night’s Dream. What 24*
production it was! Roshanara arranged the§®
ballet, Richard Whorf designed the sets anc§!”
costumes. He also played Snug. Alan Mow-4
bray was Lysander; May Ediss, Puck; Frank§®
Arundel and Lucy Currier were Oberon and Bui C
Titania; Cecil Clovelley, Flute; and our di-§@*
rector, Frank Conroy, played Bottom. What§®”"
a beautiful actor he has always been. He has§#™
the head of a falcon, and the heart! Ba
My next appearance with Roshanara’s com-§ii™!
pany was as the Moth—a dance made famous}!
by the Fuller dancers and performed before all }@™
the crowned heads of Europe. * ple
As a moth, I wore a white silk gown whose} 1!
immense wings were attached to balsam sticks
which I held in my hands—and gave great ex-]!
tension to my arms. The effect was one mass of }i@) !
shimmering silk. I danced on a lighted, multi- }#55
colored glass floor that turned me from blind- jis
ing white to amber and blue to the eventual jz!
orange flame in which I fluttered to my final je
self-destruction. I remember the thrill of doing I
this that night in front of an audience—the |))i
applause thrilled me. Roshanara was pleased iu
with me. I was quite naturally on Cloud Nine. 4s \
Ruthie and Bobby—I suppose they were prej- jsi00
athon
Hive

KAUFMANN’S LAWS | fis:

By WALTER KAUFMANN ie

This is the first of Kaufmann’s pe
Laws: Hpoint

The weakling always fails because Hoottas
somebody else did wrong. ytur
The second: Those who don’t i
despair i

but grow when others are unfair 1 dur
give proof that they are strong. i.

boy

From the book “Cain and Other Poems,” soon you

to be published by Doubleday & Co., Inc. wort

Hatt
CST | |
}drea

udiced, but I recall their looking at me after- }hop
ward as if they’d never seen me before. (no

That evening after the performance Frank or
Conroy sought Ruthie out. “Mrs. Davis,” he } (id;
said, “I seldom tell a mother what I am going |
to tell you. You must see to it your daughter _||ey
goes on the stage. She belongs there. She has_ }fr
something which comes across the footlights.”” — |sa

‘Ent

My senior year at Cushing is not so vivid in |g
my mind as my junior year. I was voted the }ji
prettiest girl in the senior class at the end of _|jyit
the year. I did play the lead in the senior play. Ih.
I can’t remember, for the life of me, what the _ }iij
play was. I continued contributing to the fam- |p)
ily funds by waiting on table. far

Ham was at Massachusetts Agricultural | \
College—we corresponded frequently. He |
came to my graduation dance. When we said _ } fy
good night, we both felt it was an end of ‘}y
something—a parting of the ways, perhaps. No
new boy had taken his place. During the Christ- _}1hj
mas holiday he visited us in Newton. aya

In order to have enough money to pay my “|ha
tuition in toto, so that I could be given my _}hy
diploma, Ruthie took all the pictures of the ji
senior class for the yearbook. She photo- }j
graphed her subjects, developed the negatives #}x
and made the prints herself. My greatest in- |
centive to become a success was the sight of my _ }jj
mother sitting in the Assembly Hall at my —
graduation. As I received my diploma, I
looked down at her from the platform. She }j\
had developer poisoning, very apparent on her |
face—she weighed about ninety pounds. A
braver, more exhausted mother was-not there
that day. I wanted to cry.

The summer after my graduation, we
rented a tiny fishing shack in Perkins Cove in
Ogunquit, Maine. The shack consisted of one
large room with a fireplace, loads of atmos-
phere, a kitchen and one bedroom. Ruthie, as
was always the case, gave Bobby and me the

= seats

ao = SS

}

}
NJUNE, 1962

\ujbedroom and slept on the living-room
ily}couch.

This was a carefree summer. I took
eithe Red Cross senior lifesaving test,
‘ngithe one girl in a blush of boys taking
idthe course. I passed and wore my
htzmblem proudly on my bathing suit.
anit was this summer that I met Marie
iisSimpson, who was waiting on table at
uiithe Sparhawk Hotel, a student at
in/Hood College in Maryland, and the
dildefinite belle of the beach. She had all
iuithe boys of Ogunquit gaga that sum-
‘simer. All but one—Fritz Hall. He was
\mine—a boy from Yale. I fell in love
m for the first time since knowing Ham.
wiin a burst of honesty I sent Ham’s

Ruthie and I drove to New York in Septem-
ber, 1928, having made an appointment for an in-
terview with Eva Le Gallienne to see if she would
accept me as a student at her 14th Street theater.

Miss Le Gallienne’s Civic Repertory Company
on 14th Street was then one of the bright hopes
of the theater. Best of all, acceptance by the lady
meant free tuition, since all her students paid
their way by appearing in the company.

Our bags were left at Uncle Paul’s house in
New Rochelle, where we would be staying for

witurned to Newton. Bobby decided
{she would rather finish her high-
¢fschool years at Newton High and live
at home. We rented the top story of a
«|two-family house on Cabot Street in
Newton. The Stanley Woodwards—
our newly found friends—lived on the
lower floor.

This started a continuation of my

blue-type period in East Orange. I
cooked, kept house, missed Fritz—
who was now at Yale—and at this
point pictured myself in the white
cottage with Fritz, not Ham. My
chums of my gay Newton High days
were involved with their own lives,
and forgot the fact of my existence.
Ham drove down from Whitinsville
during his Christmas holiday. Seeing
him again made me forget Fritz. The
boy nearby is a great factor with
youth in love. A beau on hand is
worth two in the bush. I remember
sitting looking at our Christmas tree
in the darkened living room and
dreaming our dreams of the future—
“#hopeless dreams at this point. It took
money to go to New York and study
for the theater. Money Mother just
didn’t have.
wf Ruthie took Bobby and me to the
«Jewett Playhouse in Boston that win-
er to see Ibsen’s The Wild Duck,
starring Blanche Yurka, with Peg
Entwhistle as Hedvig. It was my first
erious theater and a whole new
‘Bworld opened up to me. I was thrilled
Jwith Miss Entwhistle’s performance.
\# There wasn’t an emotion’ didn’t an-
ticipate and share with her. As the
“@play went on, I slipped farther and
farther into this Norwegian family.
1) ~Wherfs‘‘the little wild duck” shot
herself in the breast, I died with her. I
‘had no pulse whatsoever as Hedvig
was carried from the stage in a little
(Bcasket. It seemed as though every-
hing in my life fell into place and I
as in focus for the first time. There
ad been a glimmer here and there;
ut this was the vision. I knew now
hat more than anything—despite any-
hing—I was going to become an
ctress.

“Mother! Someday I will play Hed-

Ruthie had a mission now. She
ent to see Daddy to tell him of my
mbitfon to be an actress.

“Let her become a secretary. Bette
ould never be a successful actress.”
his was my second reason for suc-
eeding—to prove Daddy wrong.

Aunt Mildred and Uncle Myron
elt Ruthie was making a mistake, but | |
they agreed to keep Bobby with them | |
while we went to New York to storm
Broadway.

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the night. Our hopes were high as we entered
the theater.

Miss Le Gallienne and her secretary soon ar-
rived. She talked to me at length of my aims,
background—asked me if I knew why students of
the drama should study the movements of ani-
mals, where and how I would live in New York.
I answered the last question by saying ““With my
mother.”’ All this had made me feel very insecure,
especially the question about the animals. I had
no idea what that had to do with acting! I’m sure

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she felt in me a pride and a lack of yield that
might become a difficult problem in a student;
the truth probably was that as this was my first
experience in a dark, unlighted backstage of a
theater, I felt strange and uncomfortable. I’m
sure I was very much on the defensive.

I have never functioned well when anyone is
doubting my ability to do something. It made me
feel stupid and I was not used to this. The frost-
ing on the cake was her request for me to read
the part of a Dutch lady of sixty-five as a test of

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my acting prowess. A little heatedly I burst
out, “That is why I want to come to your
school, to learn how to play a part like this.”

Silence was my reply. I gritted my teeth and
started in—and drove myself to finish. I was
politely thanked, told I would hear from the
school in a few days, and dismissed.

Driving back to New Rochelle, I gave
Ruthie a blow-by-blow description of my in-
terview. I was positive I would never be ac-
cepted. We spent the night at Uncle Paul’s and
motored back to Newton the following day.
This was the only dramatic school in New
York Ruthie could have afforded. What

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later the letter came. Miss Le Gallienne felt I
was not serious enough in my approach to the
theater to warrant attendance at her school. I
was heartbroken, furious, defeated.

Bobby was still attending Newton High
School. Even she didn’t know me. Her gay,
zestful sister was a thing of the past. Mother
decided we would go to Norwalk, Connecti-
cut. As Fritz was at Yale nearby, she felt this
would cheer me up. She had seen an ad for a
photographic retoucher. She would try to get
the job, have Bobby finish her senior year at
Newton High.

Mother applied for the job and got it. We
nested in. Mother would come back after
work, eyes strained, back aching, but always
cheerful. Something was around the corner
for me. What, I didn’t know—and I’m sure
even she was whistling in the dark.

One morning I was awakened by Ruthie
standing over my bed saying, “Get up, Bette—
dress in your best. We’re going to New York
today.” It was pouring and the wind was
howling. Ruthie added, “Rain is your good-
luck sign. Hurry.”

We were on the train for New York in an
hour. I knew one thing only—Ruthie had
blood in her eye. She obviously meant busi-
ness. We got into a taxi at the Grand Central
Station and drove to 58th Street. The sign
outside the building where we stopped said
“Robert Milton-John Anderson School of the
Theatre.”

Without a word between us we went inside
and directly to the office of Mr. Hugh Ander-
son—John Murray’s brother—the manager of
the school. Ruthie went into the inner office. I
waited outside. Mr. Anderson told me later a
woman named Mrs. Davis walked in, sat
down, said, ““My daughter Bette wants to be
an actress. I haven’t the money for her tuition,
but will assure you you will eventually have it.
Will you accept her as a student?’ Mr. Ander-
son claims he was so stupefied that before he
knew it, he had said yes. But accepted I was.

We returned to Norwalk that night. Mother
gave up her job. We packed our things, put
them in the car, and the next day drove back
to New York. Mother once more looked for a
job and was engaged as a housemother at St.
Mary’s School in Burlington, New Jersey.

I was registered in all my classes, assigned to
a room in the brownstone boardinghouse next
door with a fellow student, Virginia Conroy.
We were not the right casting for each other—
that was obvious at first glance—but we be-
came fast friends. She was a Clara Bow type,
a true flapper, and bounced constantly in
rhythm to the jazz she always heard, whether
the radio was on or not.

Our room was in utter chaos when I first
saw it. Ginny didn’t believe in picking up
anything. Her ukulele was never far off; and
she would sit playing by the hour, cross-
legged on her bed—a John Held yogi singing,
“Won't you do do do what you done done
done before?” All this while I would be doing
my best to do my voice lessons, memorize lines
for next day’s class or whatever. She was
basically delicious—and a dear. She would
often say, ““Bette, you could be the bee’s knees
if you wouldn’t take life so seriously.”

Im afraid I got much more out of school
than Ginny did. The faculty included Martha
Graham, Michael Mordkin, Robert Bell,
George Currie—and of course John Murray
Anderson. The first day I was there, and every
day, Mr. Currie, our dramatic teacher, would
deliver a scathing attack on the theater. He
informed the seventy kids in our class that
we were heading for the toughest, least glamor-
ous life imaginable. His picture of the artist’s
life was a pointilism, whose dots of color were
sweat, jealousy, competition, disillusionment,
insecurity and more sweat.

The class was soon decimated. The little
society girls folded up their tents and silently
stole away. There were twelve of us left at
the end of the semester.

Our instructress for dancing was Martha
Graham. Her job was to teach us how to use
our bodies properly: “To act is to dance!”

I worshiped her. She was all tension—
lightning! Her burning dedication gave her
spare body the power of ten men. If Roshanara
was a mystic curve, Miss Graham was a
straight line—a divining rod. Both were great,

and both were aware of the universal. But
Miss Graham was the true modern.

I feel that a dramatic school is important
for the basic education it imparts. The al-
phabet must be learned. How to talk. How to
move. How to sit and stand. One has to learn
how to conduct oneself on a stage in a differ-
ent manner than if it were his own living room.
The alphabet! Fine. But knowing all the let-
ters from a to z does not make one a writer.
There are things that cannot be taught. Or
rather, there are things that cannot be learned.

The present trend of the actor to personal-
ize all tragedy and recall the moment in which
his puppy was run over or her doll was
broken in order to convey misery is sad to me.
Although man has a basic repertoire of emo-
tion, the subtleties in each individual are
blessedly countless.

I am not a teacher. I only know that an
actor feels. He galvanizes his energies and his
faculties and then goes out of himself, not in.
He pretends to be this other human being.
Some part of him retains this knowledge; but
he must suffer as the character just as he must
move like him and speak like him.

Many of the girls and boys today come over
quite genuinely and charmingly as themselves,
which is an accomplishment of some sort. But
take them out of their environment and they
are lost. The classics are impossible for them.
Any change of locale or time throws them.

They have simply learned to express them-
selves; and I’m terribly happy for them. When
they learn to express the character, I shall
applaud them. All the walking like a cat and
flying like a bird isn’t going to mean a thing
if the actor meows in a Brooklyn accent or
quacks like Donald Duck when he is supposed
to be Francis Drake.

Some people never do anything on time,
except buy. BOB HOPE

Then there’s the question of style. Without
it, there is no art. As personal as these troubled
actors are, there is—aside from much of a
muchness—the same of a sameness. They are
all so busy revealing their own insides that,
like all X-ray plates, one looks pretty much
like the other. Their Godhead, the remark-
ably gifted Marlon Brando, may bring (as all
true stars do) his own personal magnetism to
every part; but his scope and projection are
unarguable. He has always transcended the
techniques he was taught. His consequent
glamour and style have nothing to do with
self-involyement, but rather radiation.

There was another girl who greedily de-
voured every class at Anderson’s school with
me. I think it was her name that first made me
single her out as something special. Rosebud
Blondel!. She worked like a demon and had
talent. Her father was a vaudevillian and she
wanted to become a legitimate actress.

Rosebud changed her name to Joan later,
and Joan Blondell arrived at Warners a year
before I did.

My romantic life had come to an abrupt
halt. Fritz had proposed marriage, and I had
proudly worn his engagement ring for three
days while he pleaded with me to give up all
thoughts of the theater. John Murray Ander-
son had just announced in the press—with
accompanying photographs—that I was the
perfect, modern Venus, whatever that meant.
The notoriety did not make Harlow Morrell
Davis feel more like Jupiter, nor did it please
the patrician Fritz.

I returned the ring and answered Ham’s
latest letter from Amherst. Ham had enclosed
my Venus clipping with appropriately irrever-
ent remarks that made me roar.

Mr. Anderson gave, every year, two five-
hundred-dollar scholarships, one for a girl,
one for a boy. This represented six months’
free tuition. | made up my mind that I had
to win the girl’s scholarship.

By the end of the term I had won the role of
Sylvia Fair in The Famous Mrs. Fair which
Margalo Gillmore had played eight years
before on Broadway. James Light, of the
Provincetown Playhouse in the Village, was
the director. As the term examination play, it

-speeches. Sylvia’s decay was now complete

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA!

was to be presented to an audience of the
atrical visitors as well-as parents and teachers
This play would determine whether or no
I won the scholarship. Two days before th
performance I developed a cold with threat
ening laryngitis. The corner drugstore
my second home. There wasn’t a paten
medicine or an old wives’ tale I didn’t try.
Sylvia Fair, because of World War I an
the moral disintegration that followed ij
changes from a sweet, young thing to a bitte
and corrupt woman. By the third act m
voice was very hoarse. As the play neared it
end I could hardly struggle through the las

down to her larynx. The entire audience as
sumed that I affected the whiskey baritoni
deliberately. They were stupefied by my voga
range. So was I.

The announcements as to who had won f¥
scholarships were made that evening. Ruthie’
face of gratitude when my name was read a
the winner was worth a lot to me.

James Light about a week later sent for mi
to come to his office at the Provincetown Play.
house. He told me he was doing a new play
later that spring and wanted me to play thi
girl in it. Was I willing to leave school an
accept the part?

Hak won the scholarship, I had a big
decision to make. I went to Hugh Anderson
he did not hesitate to advise me to do thi
play with Mr. Light. I stayed a few more week
and then was on my way to play my firs
professional part in the theater.

Complications arose—of what nature ]
never knew, but the play was postponed unti
fall. Having burned my bridges behind me, ]
could hardly go back to school. I decided te
try to get another job.

Frank Conroy was in a Broadway play, s¢
I wrote him asking him if he could introduce
me to anyone who might be doing a play. He
very generously sent me a letter of introduce
tion to George Cukor, who was casting fora
production of the play Broadway to be done
in Rochester. The smallest part in the play was
not cast and, as a favor to Conroy—and I
think a bit fearfully after interviewing me—he
gave me the part. A week’s work. I was ecstatic,

I called Ruthie at St. Mary’s. She came to
New York to help me pack and to see me off
on the train. As the train was pulling out she
said, “Learn the part of Pearl. The actress
playing the part is going to have an accident.”

“Oh, Mother!’’ I said, laughing. “You an
your hunches.” But I started studying the par
on the train.

George Cukor, eventually one of Holly-
wood’s top directors, owned and ran the
Lyceum Theater in Rochester, along with
George Kondolf. If nothing else, Mr. Cukor
increased my vocabulary greatly. Dorothy
Burgess, the leading lady of the company,
very kindly took me under her wing. She even
translated Mr. Cukor’s language for me. She}
was Fay Bainter’s niece, besides being a
ented actress. The play was a backstage melo-
drama that had been a big success in New)
York. I was one of several chorus girls. I al-
most swooned when I saw my costume
“teddies” and a brassiere.

- I had to learn to do the Charleston, and
I was a romantic who preferred to dance te
the music of Guy Lombardo.

How I wished Virginia Conroy were if
Rochester with me. Why didn’t I learn the
Charleston while I was her roommate? I did
the best I could, but never really mastered thi
intricate dance. .

Rose Lerner was the actress who playe¢
Pearl and, according to Ruthie’s prophecy,'
was headed for tragedy. I was letter-perfect im}
her part, and watched her like a hawk—I’m
afraid hoping Ruthie was right.

We opened successfully on a Monday night |
At the Wednesday matinee Rose Lerner
twisted her ankle badly in a fall down a stair-
way, which was part of the business of the
play. She finished the rest of the show. That
evening, she played with a cane.

Next morning I got up at eight, dressed
quickly, had breakfast, and went to the
theater and waited. I was soon rewarded. M
Cukor arrived, yelled at his stage manager,

CONTINUED ON PAGE 80

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‘Get that dame who has the smallest part over
here right away.” He didn’t even know my
name.

I spoke up, “I’m here, Mr. Cukor.”

He asked if I could learn the part by eve-
ning. I told him I already knew it. He said,
“Come on up here. Do you know how to fall
down a flight of stairs?”

Thanks to Martha Graham’s class, all these
physical tricks we had learned. I said “Yes.”

He said, “Show me.”

I did—and then we rehearsed. I knew every
line and went on that night.

Saturday night brought an end to my con-
tract, but Mr. Cukor was so pleased with my
performance that he engaged me as the
ingenue lead for the company the next season.
God bless Ruthie’s gypsy ways! .. .

After returning from Rochester, I started
looking for a job for the summer. A casting
director asked me if I was interested in summer
stock. Indeed I was.

He gave me the name and address of the
director of the Cape Playhouse for the coming
season and made an appointment for me to
go to his hotel next day at three o’clock. I,
like Elsie Dinsmore, saw nothing out of line
about this. When I arrived for the interview,
the director was lathered for shaving, in his
undershirt. He apologized for his dishabille,
asked me many questions about my career
up to this point—and finally, with no further
requirements, gave me a job with the Cape
Playhouse in Dennis, Massachusetts, for the
summer. Ignorance is bliss! My delight knew
no bounds.

The Cape Playhouse was, I believe, the first
successful one of its kind and attracted such
names as Peggy Wood, Violet Kemble Cooper,
Basil Rathbone and Romney Brent as stars.

With Ruthie’s usual luck, we found a cot-
tage by the sea that we could almost afford.
After unpacking and sprucing up a bit, I pre-
sented myself at the Playhouse. I asked the
man in the box office if I could see Mr. Moore,
the owner.

“Tm Mr. Moore.”

“I’m Bette Davis, reporting for work. When
do we start rehearsals?”

“Never heard of you,” said Mr. Moore.

“Tm your new ingenue,” I told him. “Your
director hired me in New York. Mr. What’s-
his-name.”

“But he had no authority to hire you! There
must be some misunderstanding. The com-
pany is full for the season.”

I was dumbfounded. Mr. Moore stared at
me helplessly for a moment.

My voice shook. ‘He told me—I’ve come
up here—rented a house for the summer ——”

It was obvious to him I was sincere, and I
knew he felt sorry for me. “Well, if you—if
you want to stay here, you can be an usher in
the theater.”

Usher or actress, I secretly memorized every
part the ingenue had. I dreamed of sprained
ankles nightly.

I fell in love this summer with a boy who
has become famous. I don’t think he’ll mind
my using his name: Henry Fonda. He played
the juvenile lead in The Barker with Walter
Huston as the father—and I was only the
usher. He came for dinner at our cottage once.
We served him his first steamed clams—in our
book the greatest of gourmet treats. I don’t
know whether his instantaneous dislike of the
clams rubbed off onto me—but he didn’t re-
turn my passion. He never did. But that sum-
mer he was the most beautiful boy I had ever
seen—and such a good actor. He still is, of
course. His daughter, Jane. is such a replica
of her father at that age that looking at her
makes me feel older than I am.

The summer wore on and there wasn’t a
mishap in the cast. I watched and studied
every play that was done. I knew every ges-
ture, every cross. I heard they were going to
do A. A. Milne’s Mr. Pim Passes By with
Laura Hope Crewes. The part of Dinah—an
English girl—was perfect for me; the ingenue
of the company was truly not the right type.

Laura Hope Crewes was not only starring
in the play, but she was directing it as well.
Miss Crewes had obviously felt the ingenue
was not suitable, as she demanded from Mr.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

Moore that a young actress “who will be be
lievable as an English girl” be produced—
from New York if necessary. Mr. Moore, whe
had been most sympathetic to me all summer
introduced me to Miss Crewes as a possibility.

“Well, my dear, if you can play and sing the
English ballad I Passed by Your Window by
ten o’clock Monday morning, the part of
Dinah is yours.” 4

The ballad was not in the script; and no one
in the theater knew it. My interview had beer
late Saturday afternoon. The nearest tows
was Hyannis, ten miles away, and would there
be a music store in a tiny summer town? It
was too late to order it from Boston. Ruthie
Bobby and I drove to Hyannis. There was <
music store; but they had never heard of
Passed by Your Window.

I was suicidal at this point; but Ruthie .
Ruthie! She had made up her mind that she
find it.

*“A church! An organist! A music teacher!

We rushed from church to church—there
were only two—in search of the organist. At}
the parish house of the Episcopal church, the}
organist, after three hours’ searching, found
a copy for me. All Saturday evening, and all}
day Sunday I practiced this song. I can still
play it and remember every word of it.

Wha morning I arrived at rehearsal.}
Miss Crewes wafted one of her lovely hands
toward the piano and I sat down to play
my heart pounding. When I was finished Miss
Crewes congratulated me and, true to het
word, the part of Dinah was mine.

The company was charming to me and
thrilled that I had been given the chance to
make the leap from aisle to stage. Miss
Crewes, famous for the use of her lovely
hands, made it clear from the start that no
good ingenue waved her hands about. To tell
me this was something. The Le Fievre blood
didn’t pulsate through my body for nothing
From birth it had been impossible for me
talk without using my hands. But I tried.

At dress rehearsal I concentrated on letting
my hands hang like dead fish, but in an emo-
tional moment I lost my head and moved my
hand and arm forward slightly. I was stunned
when I felt a definite slap on my wrist. I looke¢
around, furious—Miss Crewes had done it.
I not only counted ten—I counted fifty.

The opening was a great success. I received
an ovation. We had a subscription audience
who were thrilled to see their usher turned into
an actress. Best of all, Mr. Moore asked me t
return the following season as the company
ingenue.

Bobby had chosen to go to college in Ohio
I think she had a desire to establish an identit
of her own. She was fast becoming Bette
Davis’s sister.

We tearfully parted and Mother and I drove
to Rochester, to my job as ingenue with the}
Cukor-Kondolf Stock Company.

Ruthie found us another apartment, whict
turned out to be in the heart of the red-light
district; but since the place was wildly inex:
pensive and near the theater, we saw no reason}
to move.

I met a boy named Charles Ainsley. H
would always park at the end of the street
but, other than that, we couldn’t have been
more satisfied. Charlie risked his reputation
nightly. He also kept my dressing room filled
with yellow roses.

George Cukor and George Kondolf ha
now leased the Temple Theater and inaugu-
rated their winter season with guest stars every
week. The permanent company included Wal-
lace Ford, Frank McHugh, desfgner Rus
Wright, Walter Fohlmer, Helen Gilmore#
Irma Irving, Benny Baker and Sam Blythe, aj
young man who played all the butlers and de-
tective bits and raced around Rochester in 4 |
snappy blue Chrysler. We found out that}
Sam was a celebrity when, on opening night, |
a telegram and a big red apple arrived from}
his mother, Ethel Barrymore.

Our first play was Excess Baggage, by Jack }
McGowan. The backstage tale involved a}
high-wire walker and his pretty wife, played
by Wallace Ford and Miriam Hopkins. I was
a vaudevillian in the play—the wife of Frank}
McHugh. Miriam was the prettiest golden

CONTINUED ON PAGE 8

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82
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 80

haired blonde I had ever seen. I will never for-
get her before a performance—emerging from
a shower and simply tossing her curly hair dry.
She was the envy of us all.

I won’t say that our season was distinguished
for drama; but I was learning my trade. We
did Cradle Snatchers with Elizabeth Patterson
and Marie Nordstrom; Laff That Off; The
Squall; The Man Who Came Back, with
Harland Tucker and Charlotte Wynters; and
Yellow, with Louis Calhern.

There’s no doubt about it. Working in a
stock company will always be the greatest
foundation for an acting career. An actor
tackles a new part each week, and there’s no
time for nonsense. The necessary discipline,
plus the confidence and the technique that are
gained, can be found no other place. Crises
are met and conquered. A tempo is created
and sustained.

Every actor knows that stock can make you
slick rather than profound; but you can’t play
a concerto until you know your scales. There’s
nothing wrong with facility—no matter what
the artsy-craftsy claim. Stock gives an actor
facility. It makes him a professional. Nothing
can teach you to act like acting.

The young actors today have television
series very often where for months they play
only one part. They have a Broadway play—
and if a success they play the same part over a
long period. Then, if they’re any good, Holly-
wood plucks them unripe from the vine—
“stars’’ who cannot act. And it’s not their
fault. They’ve never been given a chance to
learn.

The progress of acting careers, like every-
thing else, has become so accelerated that
amateurs are rewarded by international fame.
There’s gold in all this madness and the
temptation is great. How many Brandos are
there who will refuse—as he did—well-paying
parts in plays that bore them or won’t en-
courage their growth? Nobody wants to work.
Everybody wants something for nothing. The
easy way is usually the destructive way.

eee —

A good percentage of our lives is spent do-
ing things we loathe. Marvelous! It puts starch
in your spine.

I was blessed with energy and good health.
I’m also a worker. I always was apt to be a
know-it-all as well. When Mr. Cukor criticized
my work, I would always have a reason why I
did it my way. I alibied. Dorothy Burgess, the
year before in Rochester, gave me some good
advice:

“You're just a kid, Bette, and there’s a great
deal you don’t know. You don’t have to be
perfect. Nobody expects you to be. Listen and
learn. Don’t be afraid to admit you’re wrong.”

In the production of Yellow, Louis Cal-
hern, the star, was my lover. He was practi-
cally twice my height and age and he com-
plained, ‘She looks more like my kid than my
mistress.”’ The cast could have been reshuffled ;
but it wasn’t. Mr. Cukor fired me. I will never
really know why. He never told me.

Ruthie refused to let me brood about the
turn of events. She advised me to wire Jimmy
Light.

The timing was perfect. Jimmy Light was
more than ready for me. The Earth Between
was to go into production immediately. I

o
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~~
4

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signed a run-of-the-play contract for thirty-
five dollars a week.

The Provincetown Playhouse—a step below
Washington Square Park on MacDougal
Street—was already famous. Eugene O’Neill
had been introduced there. Helen Hayes,
Ann Harding and Katharine Cornell had had
their start on this stage. Ruthie, of course,
was already cutting my clippings. I was starting
to be frightened. One could forgive a shiny
new ingenue in a stock company almost any-
thing. But this was the real thing; and I had to
be good.

James Light and M. Eleanor Fitzgerald
were operating the playhouse in the 1928-29
season. The Earth Between was a two-act
study of Nebraska farm life; and—completely
unbeknown to me—the play dealt with an
incestuous relationship between Nat Jennings,
a farmer, and Floy, his sixteen-year-old daugh-
ter. It did seem to me when I read the play
that the widowed father’s compensative de-
mands on the child were excessive; but it
never occurred to me how fully he wanted her
to replace her mother. I had never bumped
into Oedipus at dear old Cushing. My
father didn’t even like me!

Jimmy Light, treasuring my maiveté, never
enlightened me as to what the play was about.
What I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me—it
helped me. I was as innocent as the girl in
the play.

Our curtain raiser was to be an O’ Neill one-
acter, Before Breakfast. Jimmy wisely chose
a date for our opening that would not conflict
with any uptown premiere. This assured the
presence of the top-string New York critics.

I had to wear a rose as Floy; and Charlie
sent one with a note: “I love you.” It seemed
I had everything. I was engaged to be married
to Charlie. I had the promise of a career. I
thought fleetingly of Le Gallienne. Then the
words, “Let her become a secretary,” blotted
everything else out. I had to make it. The rain
on the roof of the little theater comforted me.

The audience that evening was not in for a
night of fun. By the time I was ready to go on,
they had already watched Mary Blair, as the

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LADIES’ HOME JOUR

wife of a poverty-stricken Christopher St
artist, nag her drunken, lazy offstage hust
in a tragic tour de force that ended with
weakling’s cutting his throat while shay}
All of this Before Breakfast.
Virgil Geddes, an admirer of Mr. O’Nef_. y:
had written Earth Between, a play in much e e:
same stark style. I recall nothing of that }-
performance except the last scene in whit
stood, weak-willed and yielding, in the w
field with my loving “‘pa.”” Suddenly there}
a clap of thunder and a frightening rumble
vibrated throughout the building. I tho
the rain had caused the roof to cave in. It
the audience. It was applause. Bein:
The curtain fell and it was all over. The}. y
of the cast ran out from the wings to }...
hands for the call. The curtain became a
eyelid, blinking. Up and down. Up and dg’
And always that deafening thunder.
Challee and Carroll Ashburn squeezed
hands joyously as we gravely bowed.
I materialized somehow at my dressing te
in an ecstasy that has never quite been equal”
A blur of flowers and telegrams greeted my :
turn to the land of the living and my refle
started to work again. F
My tiny dressing room was bursting vj’.
excitement: Ruthie, Jimmy Light, Ma .
Shep Strudwick, Virgil Geddes. I wrote in}?
scrapbook that it was a “night in a milliof
It was not the exaggeration of a twer -
year-old. :
Just before I left my little cubbyholef
sniffed the spring basket that brouj””
memories of May Days in Winchester iy eal
opened the envelope attached to the wic|, ~~
handle. There was simply an engraved nar} *™
Harlow Morrell Davis. 4

When I awakened, Ruthie was standing o}
my bed and throwing the morning papers
me. We started reading them aloud.

Mr. O’Neill’s curtain raiser was panned! a
high heaven. I started skipping the texts ¢ ‘“*
looking for my name unabashedly. After !**~"'
that’s what mattered. One after the othe? ™
the News, the Graphic, the Sun, Telegre : ta

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other was crying.
0) The Earth Between was scheduled to run for
Yur weeks. The public lined up outside the

I received my first fan letters. One was from
3) unholy student at Holy Cross; one from a
J\ath teacher in far-off Rockville Center; and

ie third from an actor named Dante who

Jas appearing with Ethel Barrymore in
JV ingdom of God.

| One evening after the performance a card
vas sent in to me. The name on it was Cecil
lovelly. He had come to ask if I would be
iterested in playing Hedvig in The Wild Duck
n tour with Blanche Yurka. Interested! The
y on my face gave no need for an answer.
Hiss Yurka was going on tour with Ibsen
‘P:pertory in a few weeks. Linda Watkins was
jot going on the road with them and they
Deeded a replacement for her. I would, if ap-
Iroved by Miss Yurka, play Hedvig in The
Vild Duck and Bolette in Lady From the Sea.
Next morning I raced, breathless, uptown to
ne Bijou Theater to meet the great star who

hagnetism, Miss Yurka seemed like a giant
lird of prey. Her long neck pressed forward
§od her glowing eyes devoured everything
round her. After I read a few lines, she with-
irew her neck and lowered her eyes in satis-
Jiction. Her resonant voice could be remark-
bly gentle.

“That’s fine, my dear. We’ll have one week
f rehearsal after you close in The Earth
Netween.”
I took the Fifth Avenue bus back to 8th
itreet and sat on the open top deck and
Watched with excitement the swath we were
‘Putting through the city. Hedvig! I was truly
n heaven.
| There isn’t a creature alive today who

youldn’t tell me that it was anxiety that made
Jne break out into a cold sweat and a pink
ash that night. Today we see beneath the

e measles. It wasn’t until after the evening’s
erformance that the doctor corroborated
ur diagnosis. It was the measles. How I got
rough that night is a mystery; I was truly
eling so sick.

By the time the last scene came, the spots
ere showing through my greasepaint.

| Dackstage I collapsed into my chair. The
50m was spinning. I bolted upright as Daddy
alked into my dressing room. He was as for-
al as ever, and even more elegant. My head
eeled as he discussed the play.

“Most interesting character analysis . . .
shburn was excellent . . . that Burgess fellow
as very fine . . . Geddes is under the influ-
ince of Robinson Jeffers . . . he has power s

He never mentioned my performance!

I stared at him in disbelief. Daddy had
arely changed. A little gray at the temples,
ttractively lined, the same really. He had
eached the top at United Shoe Machinery
ompany and was now the leading patent
onsultant for the Government.

We sat looking at each other, strangers.
ust as we'd always been. His voice became
ven more formal, more impersonal:

“Would—would you care to go out with
e and have a little supper?”

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I feel wretched—really.”
he thought of food absolutely nauseated me.
He didn’t believe me for one moment. “I
lee!”

I was just too weak to care. All I wanted to
© was fall into bed. I fell into bed all right,
nd stayed there. I had the worst case of
easles the doctor had seen. It was undignify-
g, uncomfortable; and I knew it was the
nd of my playing Hedvig. It was impossible
o attend rehearsals next week and I was sure
at Yurka would be forced to engage some-
pne else. I decided that I might just as well die!

But Ruthie had other plans for me. She ran
cross 8th Street to the drugstore and called
ecil Clovelly. Mother swore that, with or
ithout rehearsal, I would be ready to do the
Darts in two weeks! Dr. Davis guaranteed it.
The next fortnight was a nightmare. The
measles had weakened my eyes and studying

the script was impossible. I have always
loathed being read to; and Ruthie sat at my
bed and read it over and over until I thought
I'd go mad. I couldn’t eat. I was weak, ir-
ritable, and Mother became my victim. I threw
the scripts across the room, in despair.

The rash started to fade, but my strength
seemed gone forever. The doctor quite prop-
erly refused to release me from quarantine as
the deadline approached; but I was possessed
of a bug far more virulent than measles.

The tenth day was a Wednesday and a
matinee day. I was due at nine-thirty in the
morning for a rehearsal, and after one run-
through I was to take over the torch from
Linda in the relay race I had entered. Lady
From the Sea was to finish out the last days of
its New York engagement. At least I wouldn’t
have to tackle Hedvig in The Wild Duck until
I had a few more days to convalesce.

| * uthie set the alarm clock for seven A.M. and
I was unconscious by nine p.m. I dreamed that
I was cured at Lourdes.

Considering our monomania, it is com-
pletely out of character that Ruthie forgot to
set the thingumabob on the clock. We
awakened at exactly the moment I was to have
walked on stage. My guardian angel had be-
trayed me.

My own mother—my own flesh and blood,
my Ruthie—had knifed me. This was the end.
Clovelly would never understand and Yurka
would banish me from theaters all over the
world. I lay moribund, with Ruthie standing
over me—grotesque in braids, flannel and
treachery!

“Keep screaming! Don’t give up! We can
get there. I'll think of something. Scream at
me!”

She pulled the bedclothes off me and
dragged me off the bed. The next thing I
knew we were standing at Sixth Avenue and
8th Street looking for a taxi. One can never
find a free one in an emergency. We stood
in the middle of the street-—Ruthie waving a
bottle of milk in one hand and a bottle of
wine (to give me strength) in the other. The
clock atop the tower of the Jefferson Court-
house shrieked ten o’clock and I went berserk. I
bit mother right on the shoulder. My teeth dug
into her flesh right through her woolen dress.

“There’s a cab, Bette! Taxi! Taxi!”

We arrived at the theater at ten-thirty—one
hour late; and Cecil Clovelly’s face was
stretched into a Benda mask of hatred.

Ruthie started to explain: “I set the clock.
It’s my fault. I forgot to set the alarm.”

Cecil stabbed her with his eyes. “Think up
a new one, Mrs. Davis!”

“Get out, Mother! And stay out!”

The director turned in surprise, and Ruthie
with her two bottles—my formula for the
day—obeyed. She sat at the stage door and I
walked on stage.

The rehearsal went without a hitch and all
was forgiven. Mother had done her job. I
knew every line perfectly; and though I had
still to see one piece of scenery or one prop,
Cecil drummed the stage business into me.

My first appearance was to be at two-
thirty. With rehearsal over, convinced now
that I could do it, Cecil thanked Ruthie, which
was more than I did. I didn’t have a moment
to think or feel anything but Bolette. And I
was exhausted. We had rehearsed in the Duck
set which was now to be “struck” so that
Lady’s interior could be set up. } was handed
Miss Watkins’s costume and told to be ready
for a luncheon during which Cecil would fill
me in on further details.

I took one look at the costume and almost
had a complete relapse. It was filthy and torn.
And, of course, no one had thought of any
necessary alteration. Just, ““Here’s your cos-
tume.”’ I announced my displeasure, which
was even more incredible, and crawled off toa
lunch that I prayed I could keep down.

When I got back the dress was laid out for
me, exquisitely cleaned and pressed, the mus-
lin of its huge peasant sleeves crisp and white.
The little high shoes of blue leather were
shined and placed beneath them. A starched
white cap with little wings was on the dressing
table. The whole room was immaculate. It was
the cure for all my troubles—and it wasn’t the
management at all. It was a wounded hob-
goblin named Ruthie.

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I plaited my hair in long braids which |
wound into a crown, dressed and went on
stage to look over the set and go through my
initial business, which was tricky. During my
opening lines I had to raise a flag on a flag-
pole. I had to get the feel of the ramps I had
to run up and down. I had visions of breaking
my leg and being shot, once and for all.

There were so many things to be checked.
Props I had only heard about. Suddenly the
stage manager cleared the set. The strings
were playing in the pit; and I realized that I
was on. Up went the curtain.

The flagpole was in working order,

but I

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was not. I started raising the flag looking calm
and sweet in my peasant outfit, but I seemed to
have no realization that I was to start the play.

Ruthie, who was in the front row, dug her
nails into her hands and prayed. After what
must have seemed an eternity to Ruthie |
looked around in a surprised manner; it was
at that moment I realized I started the play—
and I did. The gates opened and Bolette
started talking. I managed the ramps with no
trouble and four acts went smoothly.

I had no such trouble with Hedvig. Miss
Yurka staged Wild Duck herself; and after
two days in town in Lady, we opened at the

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Boulevard Theater in Jackson Heights, Long
Island. This was the beginning of a tour that
was to take us to Philadelphia, to Washington
and Boston.

I was gaining real experience as an actress.
Every day my rapport with the audience grew,
and with it my confidence. In Washington,
President and Mrs. Coolidge were in the audi-
ence. They came back to congratulate us. It
didn’t matter that Blanche Yurka, after shar-
ing applause with the rest of us, always took
her solo calls. After all, she was the star.

The night we opened in Boston—my home
town, and where I had first seen Hedvig
played—was the night of nights. Daddy was
there that night. As were Myron, Mildred,
the Woodwards, so very many old school
friends. Ruthie was, as usual, in the front row.

There was a letter from Charlie on my dress-
ing table when I arrived to make up. I gaily
opened the envelope. I read the note again.
Charlie had broken our engagement. Just
like that. His father disapproved of ac-
tresses ... we were too young... knew I would
understand... and forgive . . . helpless against
them. ..so sorry!

There was a knock on the door and the
doorman handed me a box. I opened it and
found two gardenias with a note from Miss
Yurka: “To the hometown girl.”’ I had half an
hour before the curtain went up. I couldn’t
let Ruthie down tonight. All her love, blood
and sweat had to be proved worth it that
night. I tore up the letter.

“Five minutes, Miss Davis!’ But why didn’t
he talk it over with me? I never want to see him
again!

Opening nights! The nightmare of all ac-
tors. Lotte Lehmann once told me, “It will
grow worse, not better, as you grow older.”
She was right. It is always a kind of death
before the curtain goes up. That night in
Boston was no exception.

Once the curtain was up my only problems
were Hedvig’s, and all went smoothly. The
curtain fell and the whole cast took its bow.
The applause was tremendous. Miss Yurka
stepped through the curtain for her solo cur-
tain call. Starting to the wings, I was stopped
by Cecil Clovelly. Everyone was to remain on
stage in case another cast curtain was justified.
There seemed to be no end to this particular
performance. I watched Miss Yurka, her eyes
cast down in humility as her public greeted her.
Then up went the curtain again; and the whole
cast once more joined the star. The audience
is certainly extremely responsive this evening.

‘

Diddenty Miss Yurka took my hand and led
me to the footlights and the curtain fell behind
us. This was a tremendous honor and most
gracious of her. But then she let go of my
hand, smiled and walked off the stage—leay-
ing me alone.

The theater shook with applause and
bravos. People actually stood on their seats
and cheered—for me. I felt my face crumple
and I started to cry.

The weight that was Charlie was lifted like a
miracle. “Bravo! Bravyo!’’ My first stardust.
It is impossible to describe the sweetness of
such a moment. Alone! All those marvelous
people. My heart almost burst.

This was the true beginning of the one great
durable romance of my life.

The Ibsen tour ended and Ruthie and I
drove to Ohio to pick up Bobby and bring her
home to be with us at the Cape for the second
season.

My arrival at the Playhouse was a far cry
from my earlier one. Mr. Moore had a dress-
ing room ready for me this time. I was given
the lead in The Patsy, my first comedy. I had
nightmares every night during rehearsal that
no one would laugh. I would wake up ina cold
sweat. On opening night my first line got its
laugh—and I relaxed. Comedy wasn’t so
different after all.

The next play after The Patsy was Bernard
Shaw’s You Never Can Tell. The imported
star was an actor named Dodd Meehan. I was
fascinated by him. He, realizing this, took full
advantage of my adoration and had me cue
him. This took time away from me to learn
my own lines. I, evidently, was so in outer
space that this did not worry me at all until I
blew my lines umpteen times at the dress
rehearsal. After the rehearsal Mr. Moore

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAI aad
wanted to know what had happened to 30 20
He said, “If you don’t learn your lines we wil ”
have to cancel the opening tomorrow night.” j=
I ran all the way back to our house. Ruthie
having been at the rehearsal, marched into my yee -
room with the script. Bobby was trying te Fe: 0?
comfort me, but I was beyond commiseration#} , Bil
“Barbara! Put on a pot of coffee and gefpiii!” b
dinner ready. We'll join you in a little whilepi
Up, young lady!”” : eit
I sat up obediently as Mother threw my
“sides” to me. Re
“You're going to learn this part by tomo ore.
row morning.’ yen
For fifteen hours straight I worked on the pben |
lines, Ruthie cuing me. At ten sharp Monday f ef
morning I arrived at the theater. That night}te<
we opened. I never missed a line. There was apa
bouquet waiting for me afterward and in it By mul
was a contract for the next summer. p p
pt the 1
It was fall again and Bobby left for college, ave br
Our charming little house and a fur coat forptit! |
Bobby’s Wisconsin winter had exhausted our#ilt ©

"y
funds. We started on our first year in thee
theater with no job. c

During this period I entered my one and 2

only contest—with the exception of the P.S, ds

186 one for cookies many years ago. This one rh itl
did not turn out so successfully. A contract in)|th a
Hollywood was offered to the girl who could/lte™
look most like Vilma Banky. We studied tk!
photographs of her; Ruthie dressed my hai ik nt
like hers—I was blond; I made myself up and it 5

One of the best investments | .:
in your child’s future is Ps
regular &
dental care-* t
American Society of Dentistry for Children cou

to the Astor Hotel we went at the appointed int
hour. The winner was chosen instantane-)iWe\
ously—a setup—the rest of us weren’t even jas n0
looked at. This was my first lesson in Holly: te f
wood-type publicity. pesto
Had not an agent named Jane Broder come :
into my life at this point, heaven knows wha
else I wouldn’t have tried to get a job. M nS
luck again. She had two offers for me—the 3
road tour of Saturday’s Children, and an inter- }
view for a new show by Martin Flavin called |
Broken Dishes, starring Donald Meek. The
part was the ingenue lead. I was interviewed
by Mr. Flavin; the producer, Oscar Serlin; ¥tlin
and the director, Marion Gering. They ac-
cepted me for the part. Bchar
Broken Dishes was an unpretentious little “|mou
domestic comedy. Mr. Meek was the hen- k bat
pecked Mr. Bumpstead; I, his daughter |
Elaine; both of us eventually rebelled against oe
the domineering Mrs. Bumpstead. I loved
playing Elaine and Mr. Meek was an angel.
Grandmother came to New York for the @{
opening and I will never forget how thrilled she ain
was that night. She sat in a box, every inch a
queen in her black lace with the high collar
and her white hair shining in the dark. The %\
flowers backstage in my dressing room were
legion. Grandmother and Ruthie took them
back to the apartment in a taxi while I went #
on to a party. I got home after two o'clock Mitty
and there sat Grandmother still wide awake— Rl. N
waiting to see me before she went to bed. She #{Ih
died not long afterward. I was always grateful
that she lived to know I had a good start on

the road to success in my chosen profession. |
My salary was $75 a week. It was doubled. [#

after three months of our run. you
One night, after I felt I had given a particu- 7b

larly good performance, I came home beam- hi

ing and told Ruthie how good I had been that Jher
night. I didn’t know that Ruthie had been in Jhir
the audience. She let me finish and then an- {{gh}
nounced that I had given the worst perform- ili
ance I had ever given in the part. Dun

She went on to say, “You enjoyed yourself fol
too much.” We didn’t talk for days. But ‘he;
underneath, I knew she was right. The mo- Jf)

‘MINE, 1962

om
W

wt an actor allows a part to take over and
iu has fun, he never gives as good a per-
mance.

Phe audience has paid to see you perform,
‘Og have fun. Besides, you never know who’s
{ging to be out front. One night Arthur
alg irnblow Jr. was in our audience. Samuel
@ldwyn had sent him to see me as a pos-
\ility for the leading lady in a film which
Jnald Colman was to star in. Mr. Hornblow
G@rred me a test for the part.

| made the test at the Paramount Studio in
ini@joria. They sent it West for Mr. Goldwyn
see. He bellowed, ‘‘Who did this to me?”
0 hen I saw it, I agreed with him. I had a
Mn joked front tooth that was not attractive
iv@ithe screen. My insecurity in a new medium
igs apparent.

By mutual, unspoken consent, the test was
jored by everyone. It was brutally clear
it the movies were not for me. I did decide
‘gave braces put on my teeth—in case I ever
i@eived another invitation for a motion-
\vgiture test.

th Broken Dishes ran successfully through the
ying and I returned to the Cape “straight
ulim her New York triumph.” It was my
Piird season at Dennis. I was to join Mr.
0 ek and the rest of the cast for a road tour
(ithe fall.

oul ihe Cape was as busy as ever. Again a play
(i@eek. I had quite forgotten what leisure was.
h yasn’t to know again for twenty years.
ujfPne Sunday evening Ruthie, Bobby and I
int to. a movie in Hyannis Port. I suddenly let
- a whoop. I had seen the back of a neck
ir rows in front of us, silhouetted against
screen. I knew it belonged to only one
} son: Harmon O. Nelson Jr. Ham!

} hough we had seen or heard little of each
ner for four years, it was as if we had never
fe separated. We all went back to our
tage after the movie and talked into the
2 small hours.

Ham was leader of the Amherst band play-
| for the summer at the Old Mill Tavern.
+ could see each other all summer. We would
et after our work—walk on the beach—go
) a drive—sit around the house—talk of our
/ures. Ham had one more year of college. I
\¥s in the theater.
m§We were both growing up and marriage
js no longer a distant possibility, but mar-
\\fige for Ham and me seemed out of the
estion at this point. He came to see each
mfxy I did, and was impressed with me as an
ress. That pleased me.
\jin September we said good-bye; back he
ih¥int to college, I to Baltimore, Maryland, to

in en the road tour of Broken Dishes.

week later, when we were playing in
«Jashington, I received a call from Oscar
frlin. They needed a replacement for the
y#zenue in a new play, Solid South, starring
hard Bennett. Mr. Bennett had three very
(fmous daughters—Constance, Joan and
oy rbara.
wl really didn’t want to leave Mr. Meek and
oken Dishes; but an opportunity to follow
my sugcess with another Broadway play
s something I couldn’t ignore. The play
s to open in New York in ten days. Once
in I would have day and night rehearsals
)d—from what I had heard—a rather diffi-
It coworker. Mr. Bennett’s temperament
Nis well known. It was with mixed feelings
lat I arrived at the theater to meet him.
He eyed me suspiciously as I walked down
2 aisle. “So! You look like one of those
itresses who think all they need are eyes to
. My daughters are the same.”
,wI had been on a train overnight—I was
led. I looked right at him and said, “Mr.
pnnett, I’m very happy to return to Wash-
. Wgton immediately!”
,WHe threw his head back and laughed.
(ou’ll do.” From there on he and I were
best of friends.
The press was again very kind to me and
e rest of the cast; but the critics perpetuated
eir tempestuous romance with the star. The
.Wghly respected Percy Hammond called
lid South a “shiftless improvisation” and
nd Mr. Bennett’s blustering old Major
‘pllonsby ‘tas shoddy an impersonation as a
the player could give.” Brooks Atkinson un-
irthed “enough mountebankery to make it

palatable for unprincipled playgoers.”’ Burns
Mantle in the News thought (as everyone did)
that the julep-drinking major was good fun
“but not a faithful likeness of any human
being.”

We closed in two weeks because of “Mr.
Bennett’s indisposition.”’ Our contracts were
canceled by “Act of God.’ Not Jehovah,
however. This one’s name was Bacchus.

During this limited appearance, David

Werner, a talent scout for Universal Pictures,
came to a performance. Universal had pur-
chased Preston Sturges’s play, Strictly Dis-
honorable, and Carl Laemmle, the head of
Universal, thought I might be right for the

young girl. I consented to take another test,
and was offered a contract at $300 a week.

I was serious about not wanting to leave the
theater. However, with the show closed, I was
out of a job. It was either Hollywood or job
hunting again.

It was understood that my first film would
be the girl in Strictly Dishonorable. This was
the only thing that was not incorporated in
the twenty-pound contract.

“That’s understood, Miss Davis . . . there
are technicalities . . . the property is still being
negotiated ie

My decision had been made. My moving
finger writ and, having writ, tapped nervously

as all my friends warned me that what I had
spelled out was a sentence that would make
San Quentin a vacation spot.

“You, Bette! Do you really think you’l! be
given a chance to do anything worthwhile?”
. .. “Now you’ve done it. Darling! Don’t you
know you can’t lick them there and you won’t
want to join them?”

After all, I wasn’t some jazzed-up little
thing. If they wanted another Jean Harlow,
they couldn’t expect that from me. There are
good actresses out there: Ruth Chatterton,
Garbo, Jeanne Eagles, Claudette Colbert. I'll
be in Strictly Dishonorable. Universal has great
plans for me!

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[ heard the first of their plans when I kept an
appointment to see Mr. Laemmle’s publicity
people. The gentlemen looked me over across
the great desk and through the upraised soles
of their shoes. Our dialogue was a revelation.

‘Now about your name.”

“What about my name?”

“No glamour. Bette Davis, ugh! We’ve
given a lot of thought to it and we’ve come up
with the perfect name: Bettina Dawes.”

“Bettina Dawes! I refuse to be called...
‘Between the drawers’ all my life!’’ I told these
geniuses.

They did laugh and they did skip any more
discussions about changing my name.

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There were things to be done before Mother
and I could leave for the coast. Our car, for
one. “But down payment Is
negligible’ had long since become a monthly

dearest, the

‘How are we going to meet the payments?”
Ruthie had just put another $300 into the car
and now we were going away. She was lucky
enough to sell the car back to the dealers and
realized $50 on it instead of $150, which she
had hoped for.

We boarded the train for California—two
rather frightened people. I remember sitting
on the observation platform as we pulled out
of Chicago and feeling | would never see my
beloved East and my friends ever again.

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Hollywood seemed to be the end of the world.

After five days—that’s how long it took in
1930 to cross the country—Ruthie and I ar-
rived at the Los Angeles station. Mr. Werner
had told me in New York the studio would
send a car and get us settled in a hotel. We
waited half an hour. No one came.

We took a taxi to the Hollywood Plaza
Hotel. We signed for a room and called the
studio. They were horrified. They’d sent a car
and a representative to meet us. They hadn’t
seen anyone who looked like an actress!

Ruthie and I went to a real-estate office to
ask about finding a house. Mrs. Carr was the
broker. After we informed her of our top price,
she said, “I know just what you want. But
first you’ve simply got to see the most ador-
able house. It’s far too expensive but, as new-
comers to California, you'll be fascinated with
the place. It’s on Alta Loma Terrace.”

Well! It was the sweetest house I had ever
seen in my life. Completely furnished, replete
with linens, silver, china and a grand piano, it
had everything, including a beautiful outside
porch which we learned was called a patio.
From it we could see the Hollywood Bowl.
Flowers were wildly abundant and it was mid-
winter. Ruthie and I looked at each other
wretchedly while Mrs. Carr hummed inno-
cently to herself.

Ruthie got me alone for a moment. “Can
you borrow on your salary?”

‘““No! Mother, I can’t.”

It was impossible to find any other house
that would compare. | was heartbroken that
we couldn’t take it. Mother told Mrs. Carr
that we would let her know on Monday, which
was sheer insanity. What could we let her
know? That we had only enough to live on
until my first week’s salary—and that was
already half spent.

W hen we left Mrs. Carr, Ruthie was posi-
tive we were going to live there. “‘I’m going to
wire your father. It’s the least he can do at this
point. What’s more, we need a car out here.”

As we talked she somehow steered me to a
car agency. In a moment the two hobos from
the East were sitting in an adorable green
phaeton.

“You look just right, Bette, sitting at that
wheel.””

“We'll be sitting in jail if you keep going
on this way.”

We left the showroom after Mother repeated
her promise to get in touch with the salesman
on Monday. It was the day I was to report to
the studio and I was nervous.

Now Mother tried her wiles on me again.
She thought the sight of the car would encour-
age my borrowing money from the studio. “A//
you have to do is show them your contract.”

**No, Mother!”

Back at the hotel we had such a to-do that
Ruthie called downstairs to complain of the
noise, hoping to throw the management off
the scent. I was tired and went to bed. It
wasn’t until months later that I discovered
what Mother was up to while I slept.

Carl Milliken, governor of Maine ten years
before, was an old friend of the family; and
Ruthie had heard he was in Hollywood, stay-
ing at the Roosevelt Hotel. She called the
hotel at five-thirty in the morning to be sure
he was registered there. He was. Carl always
played tennis with his Japanese teacher at
seven A.M. and Ruthie dressed herself hur-
riedly. | awoke as she was sneaking out. In
semiconsciousness, I asked where she was
going. “For a walk,” was her reply.

I learned later that Mother ran from Vine
Street to the Roosevelt Hotel and “ran into”
Carl as he was leaving for the tennis court.
His surprise at seeing her was tempered by his
fright of her expression. When he asked what
was wrong, Ruthie simply said, “I need five
hundred dollars immediately.”” Now we’re all
New Englanders and we like to know why
someone wants $500. Ruthie explained that
we needed a place to live and a car to get us
around. The loan would be for a short while.
Carl—eager to get on with his tennis—peeled
off five bills and handed them to her.

Ruthie now went to Western Union, where
she paid someone to write out a message from
Father. The telegram sounded exactly like him,
WIRE RECEIVED. SENDING MONEY. NEVER ASK
AGAIN. HARLOW M. DAVIS, The wire was slipped

under our door. As I was reading it, Mot
came back to the room and read it too.

In two days we had become the propo
owners of Alta Loma Terrace and a gre
phaeton with yellow wheels. On Mondaypoue!
drove to the studio. Word had spread that
“Davis girl” had arrived and, one by olf
studio executives found reasons for wande
into and out of the reception room. I wai
and waited, and at last Mr. Laemmle ope
his door and I was ushered into his office.

}
a «
ts)»
|

even seen the inside of a beauty parlor.
hair was worn simply with a knot in back.
Laemmle’s face was a study. That he
immediately convinced I was not right
Strictly Dishonorable was apparent to mé,

Mr. Laemmle later said, “She has as nufen—
sex appeal as Slim Summerville!” I was in to)

THE JOURNAL
AT YOUR
FINGERTIPS

The Journal is happy to announce tha
it is the first women’s magazine to be

. . . 61a . . i
printed in a Braille edition. Beginning},

gests, is able to carry forward its valu!
able work of publishing books anc
periodicals for the blind thanks largely
to devoted volunteer help.

outer office and heard the remark. It took };
a long time to regain my composure.

in the still gallery, introduced to official iho),
was told the studio would call me tomorifyjin.
and arrange for some tests. It was rumMorecChjp);
the lot that Bette Davis was “a little bree...
wren.” | think Mr. Werner was sent to Sibe| | ,..
I crawled back to exotic Alta Loma ‘pr.
moodily surveyed the Hollywood Bowl. FE} Bo
rado! The flowers were scentless, the SUH fjy;,
lentless! I loathed the whole*place and Cihys,..
like a baby. Ruthie was sure that everythhy,)..
was happening for the best. She was sure’ tho...
I had nothing to worry about. ha 4
During what was laughingly called jj; ...
holidays, I was called to the studio. Oney) ¢,
Mr. Laemmle’s relatives was given his ifn
directorial assignment on a film called Hi

IMSS g

moved from the shelf and sent to wardr¢ Ne poten
where I was dressed in a cotton dress much fy.”
revealing in front. I complained about thy...
but nothing was done about it. Hot and |
barrassed, I was rushed down to the set wl} 4. \;.
the dark little director stopped brooding If:
enough to glare at me and say to one Offy,
assistants, “What do you think of these shy...
who show their chests and think they canfy,,,

UNE, 1962

obs?” This was my first meeting with William
WVyler. He gave the part to Helen Chandler

sought Booth Tarkington’s story, The Flirt,
ind I was being considered for it. When

ny chance had come. But it was not yet my
lay. Sidney Fox was given the lead opposite
he star, Conrad Nagel, and I was cast as her
Jister.

) The Flirt was called Gambling Daughters by
he time we started work. It should have been
alled off. The cast, besides Mr. Nagel and
‘idney Fox, included Humphrey Bogart (also
a his debut), Zasu Pitts, Charles Winninger,
hummerville. It was a tale of Midwestern

Niers—she the hellion, I the timid mouse. I was
‘Mfo virtuous, so plain, so noble that it turned
jay stomach. The title was again changed, this
ime permanently, to Bad Sister.

Bad Sister had a sneak preview in San
8ernardino and Ruthie and I attended it. We
left before it was over and drove home in
ilence.

According to all existing Hollywood stan-
lards, my face was not photogenic. Embar-
assment always made me have a one-sided
mile; and since I was constantly embarrassed
n front of a camera, I constantly smiled in a
mne-sided manner. My hair, my clothes! They
jadn’t cared. It was as if they dared you to be
jj,00d. No one bothered to help.

I had been in Eldorado for three months
ind it was option time. I got the shock of my
fife when I was called to Mr. Laemmle’s office
nd told that I was to be kept on for another
ihree months. It was several weeks before I

aemmie that “Davis has lovely eyes.”

The head of the studio might have been im-
‘yressed by Karl Freund’s observation, but
vord soon got to me that Mr. Laemmle—

ee worked overtime in an effort to keep
|ay spirits up. I was discouraged. I was aching
o work, but my energies had no outlet. It was
“rue that my training and my dedication im-
ressed no one; wherever I turned I was re-
ilehuffed.
wpe? While I spent countless days posing in bath-
jing suits and evening dresses for fan maga-
Shines, I spent my evenings at Grauman’s or the
-pyPantages watching the movies from a new
‘antage point. If I couldn’t learn on the set,
*d learn from the finished pictures themselves.
suddenly films were broken down to scenes
nd fragments, long shots nd close-ups. I be-
amé aware of editing and transitions. Unlike
nost of my fellow actors who had made the
ikliegira West, I couldn’t look down on a
aedium*which could put a hundred million
»eople in a trance. It was the charlatans for
wal§vhom I had contempt. Now that pictures were
mtalking, [-had a vision that someday they
ordjnight say something. There were moments
:\vhen they almost did.
Se} I was under contract as a motion-picture
mi @ctress and I had to learn my craft with Ruthie
nd Bobby in the dark of a balcony. I watched
sarbo now as a colleague, not as the mysteri-
«i tpus Swedish beauty. Her instinct, her mastery
syibver the machine was pure witchcraft. I can-
wethot analyze this woman’s acting. I only know
hat no one else so effectively worked in front
f a camera. John Barrymore, George Arliss,
(mRuth Chatterton all galvanized the screen. It

9s truck me that, rather than being a stepchild of

Héhe theater, the motion picture was heir ap-
“8 parent. Certainly the artistic and communica-
sitive potential was stunning. Something told me
««hthat this was not the graveyard of my dreams,

: (hut just a valley I must suffer. My despair dis-
oigolved into hope.

i As if in answer.to my newfound sense of

widestiny, John Stahl, one of Universal’s direc-
tjors, stared at me in the commissary one

Stahl saw me over a hot-roast-beef sandwich
and French-fried potatoes and summoned me
to his set, where he cast me as another sister
in the screen adaptation of Charles Norris’s
novel Seed, a plea for birth control that was
too controversial for Hollywood and all but
ignored in the film. The theme and I met the
same fate. As one of John Boles and Lois
Wilson’s five children who got in the way of
papa’s literary career, I might just as well have
been arrested at the source.

There was no makeup man for me, no
attempt was made to light me properly, and I
felt like a church mouse next to the soignée
Genevieve Tobin, who broke up our dull but

That‘ formfit Feeling ....in

“Laughter,” great new $2.50 bra. Behaves like

happy home. But I did my thankless job and
kept my mouth shut. It was actually encour-
aging to play with Miss Wilson, a lovely ac-
tress, and Miss Tobin, whose work, like her
appearance, had such polish. Working in a
picture with John Stahl as a director gave me
hope also. He was a talented man.

Universal, now irrevocably convinced that
they had been duped, made the best of a bad
bargain and cast me in Robert Sherwood’s
Waterloo Bridge, in which Mae Clarke played
Myra opposite Douglass Montgomery’s Roy.
I was his gentle sister, Janet. Universal’s step-
child had played three sisters and not a
Mascha amongst them.

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Now—in a burst of generosity that was not
a little suspect—Mr. Laemmle lent me to
RKO to play the ingenue in Phillips H. Lord’s
screen debut as his own Seth Parker in Way
Back Home. Mr. Laemmle obviously had no
intention of using me again, but I was on the
payroll until option time. Ignoring Polonius’s
advice, he again lent me out—this time to
Columbia. I appeared in The Menace, opposite
Walter Byron and H. B. Warner.

The next loan-out was produced by Benja-
min F. Zeidman and the picture was aptly
named Hell’s House, a story of juvenile de-
linquency which took about five minutes to
make although it seemed like an eternity.

God’s eye might be on the sparrow, but it
was certainly ignoring the little brown wren.
Six movies were under my belt. The next role
would be it. The next one would be the part to
prove I really knew how to act. And then it
happened. Universal did not take up my
option. There is no question that this was the
low point in my career. I’m not a good loser. I
obviously would have to return to New York
with my tail between my legs. I hadn’t made it.

The studio contractually had to pay our
fare back to New York. We made the reserva-

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7 ees tions, arranged to sell the car, packed our
og trunks. The day before we were to board the
j ou : train, our phone rang.
7 - pS Ruthie answered. I heard her say, “George
GY j ; ¥ who?... Arliss? . . . Bette, it’s for you—it’s

George Arliss.”

As I went to the phone I wondered which
friend was ribbing us. Very elegantly I said to
the supposed George Arliss—in a very broad
British accent—‘““Yes, Mr. Arliss, and what
can I do for you?”

A beautiful English voice, slightly taken
aback, said, ‘Is this Miss Bette Davis? This
is Mr. George Arliss.”

He managed to get through to me that he
was for real, that Murray Kinnell, who was in
The Menace with me, had suggested my name
as a possibility for a part in his next picture.
He wondered if I could be at Warner Brothers
at three o’clock that afternoon.

Could I be? Try and stop me! The sky was
blue again. The grass was green. An Arliss
picture!

The premiere of a George Arliss film had
the glamour and tone of a New York opening.
Awesome as he was to me, I really felt I was
meeting one of my own when I entered Mr.
Arliss’s office; I respected him as an artist and
knew that, lucky or not, I would be able to
relate to him on a level unheard of in my
recent dealings.

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courtliness for which he was famous. His
fabulous face, incredibly contorted, opened
like a flower and his monocle dropped on its
ribbon to his narrow chest as he said, ‘“‘How
do you do, Miss Davis. So nice of you to
come! Please sit down. My friend Murray
Kinnell believes that you would be an excel-
lent choice for the leading lady in my next
film.”

“T don’t know how he could tell, Mr. Arliss,
from that dreadful picture.”

But what was I saying? Whose side was I
on? Mr. Arliss laughed. “Mr. Kinnell is a
most discerning fellow. Tell me, my dear.
How long were you on the stage?”

“For three years, Mr. Arliss.”

“H’m-m!”’ The tips of his fingers touched
in church-steeple fashion. “Just enough to
rub the edges off.”

He then looked up at and through me in the
manner of a kind diagnostician seeking out
the cause of his patient’s pain. His small dark
eyes had an ancient sadness; but his taut,
triangular mouth seemed always to be re-
pressing an irrepressible mirth. The suspense
was agonizing.

I suspect that Mr. Arliss had twenty-twenty
vision because he hummed a sound of satis-
faction, turned away and replaced his mon-
ocle.

“The part is yours. Go to the casting office
right away. They will take you to the wardrobe
department.”

I finally found my voice, thanked him in the
understatement of the century, and got out of
the office without falling in a dead faint. By
the time I got to the wardrobe department I
couldn’t control myself any longer. I started
literally jumping up and down and screaming,
“T can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.’ I even
hugged several perfect strangers.

The next morning I reported for rehearsal.
Mr. Arliss, through Murray Kinnell, had
thrown me the lifeline just as I was going
down. Like Pearl White, I was snatched from
the jaws of death. Because failure to me is a
death. I knew that after all this time, this was

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and showed me every conceivable conside:
tion. He was turning the little brown wre
into a bluebird. For the first time care wa
taken with me by the makeup man, the hai
dresser and the wardrobe department. What:
difference this can make.

The Man Who Played God opened wit!
great fanfare at Warners’ Western Theate}.
and was a great success throughout the coun}.
try. The critics couldn’t understand the chang
that had come over me. It was awfully simpl
I had a good part with a fine cast, a fine pr
duction, and my makeup and clothes an
camera work were the best.

Warners picked up my option and Ruthie§ -.
Bobby and I breathed a sigh of relief. Al}.
thoughts of packing were forgotten for
least another year. ‘4

I was cast immediately in a Barbara St
wyck picture at Warners. This was the firs
time in Hollywood the powers had shown any
recognition of my work. It was a source o
tremendous satisfaction.

Before starting the Arliss film, I had beer
introduced to the Warners publicity men
headed by Charles Einfeld. Studio press agent:

HAPPINESS |

By MALCOLM LOWRY bet
My:
Blue mountains with snow and pest
blue, cold, rough water, pmecogn
A wild sky full of stars at rising pec
And Venus and the gibbous moon | ie
at sunrise, ain
Gulls following a motorboat
against the wind, }) Tk
Trees with branches rooted in =
air— Samy ¢
Sitting in the sun at noon with the re
furiously itam
Smoking shadow of the shack D
chimney— ipl
Eagles drive downwind in one, 90s
Terns blow backward, .
A new kind of tobacco at eleven, | bie
And my love returning on the gama
four o’clock bus— puoiic
My God, why have You given this _| Pi
to us? *

© 1962 Margerie Lowry
SS
are your shield, your fortress against the Mg a
world. How they maintain their sanity and|?*"
loyalty in the face of the characters they work asi
with is a major mystery. There is nothing they| that
do not know about you. And they take th pin
bad with the good, always poised to shield you
from the press. I was to get to know many of}
these men well and will always be in their debt.|
But this was my beginning and I started to
serve my apprenticeship. The Stanwyck pic-}
ture was a remake of Edna Ferber’s So Big.) hard
William Wellman graphically picturized the
toilworn land and farmers of the Midwest.
I played opposite Salina’s weak-willed son.)
I was an artist who leads her sweetheart back
to his destiny and his mother’s dream. A new-
comer to Hollywood made his first film ap-
pearance at the end of the picture. He was 4)
handsome Irishman straight from Dublin’s
great Abbey Players, George Brent. He was a
young man of immense charm. |
We were cast in Ruth Chatterton’s first pic-
ture for Warner Brothers. They raided Para-
mount and signed not only Miss Chatterton
but William Powell and Kay Francis. As a
matter of fact, | worked on the Chatterton Cray
film in the daytime and the Stanwyck film} *%
at night for a week! i op
Miss Chatterton had always been one of my ke
favorite actresses. She chose for her first film at
Warners The Rich Are Always With Us, a bor
drawing-room comedy. We were all terribly
rich and Miss Chatterton, being the star, was Hi
the richest of us all. Although John Miljan
was Miss Chatterton’s husband, he was play-
ing around with Adrienne Dore. Miss Chat-

JUNE, 1962

terton was in love with George Brent. I was in
love with Mr. Brent, both on the screen and
off—in both cases unsuccessfully. I didn’t get
George and neither did Miss Chatterton on
the screen—but she did off. They were married
,§ shortly after the completion of the film.

I fared the best to date in The Rich Are
Always With Us, and not without the help of
Ernie Haller, my first fine cameraman, who
remained my favorite throughout my career.
Louella Parsons, who had been encouraging
about my work from Bad Sister on, was de-
Flighted with my great change in appearance,
although she became obsessed with what she
called my “heavily beaded lashes and over-
rouged mouth.”’ Oddly enough, they were to
become my trademarks.

Everyone seemed startled by my change of
personality, which had very little to do with
“§ me but with the part I was playing. The little
brown wren could become a peacock if the
‘Jsituation demanded.

Mr. Arliss had made some suggestions re-
garding my hair. A lighter hue of blond and a
'slick coiffure did wonders for me, although my
apparent resemblance to Constance Bennett,
much as I admired her, distressed me no end.
_} 1 had no desire to look like anyone else, and
‘Pevery fan magazine reveled in a triptych of
Bennett, Carole Lombard and myself with the
captions “Hollywood Look Alikes”
‘“Couldn’t They Be Sisters?’’ Miss Bennett
must have loathed us. Thank God, all that
ended and we emerged as three entirely differ-
ent personalities, which we certainly were
from the outset.

My mail started to grow and it became
pleasantly impossible to go anywhere without
recognition. Ruthie blossomed with my grow-
ing celebrity. It looked now as if we were going
to make it in Hollywood. George Arliss was
truly “the man who played God” to Ruthie
and me.

The Hollywood males had discovered me
and some of them were fun. It was not neces-
sarily a compliment that they surrounded me.
I was on the way up. The male ego with few
exceptions is elephantine to start with. Add to
it a movie contract and it soars through space
'and into eternal orbit around itself. All those
misplaced drives. Mine was going on all
cylinders, aiming for the top of the Hollywood
Hills.

Drive is considered aggression today; I knew
it then as purpose. I looked around at the
‘glamour stars of the day. They brought the
public in. They were the backbone of the entire
picture business. To me they were not actresses
but personalities. I don’t underestimate them
to this day. But I wanted much more.

My next picture for Warners was a political
satire in which Warren William and I made the
intensely bewildered Guy Kibbee a most will-
ing and incapable mayor of a big town. The
picture was light in mood, but had a rolltop-
desk authenticity in its political skulduggery
that called for an earthy but urban represen-
tation of the girl. or

Aitthough Ruthie and I dreamed that some-
day Warners would give me the glossy produc-
tions that MGM gave its players, I felt that
‘| the girl I was playing would never have a
hairdo by Sidney Guileroff or a nineteen-piece
suit with a supersonic collar by Adrian. This
was the period when Joan Crawford would
start every film as a little factory worker who
punched the time clock in a simple, stunning
black Molyneux with white piping (someone’s
idea of poverty) and then ended with her
marrying the boss, who now allowed her to
**) deck herself out in tremendous buttons, cuffs,
4} and shoes with bows (someone’s idea of
wealth). A change of coiffure with each outfit
kept her so busy it was a wonder she had time
to forward the plot. All this was hardly Miss
Crawford’s fault, and the public adored it.
Hollywood had its own reality and the Misses
Crawford, Shearer and Dietrich were gor-
geously glamorous. Their magnetism drew the
people into the theaters.

Part of me envied them. They were so beau-
tiful. I knew it was possible with my ambitions
for acting rather than glamour that I might
never equal their popularity. But I was I!

Ham came to California that summer after

he graduated from college. After my two years

in Hollywood, Ham stood taller and more
genuine than ever. He was home, New Eng-
land, stability. I had been homesick for the
world I had been brought up in. We were living
at Zuma Beach, Bobby, Ruthie and I. I was
self-conscious of my increasing fame and tried
to make light of it to Ham, fearing he would
suddenly feel inferior.

Ruthie talked to me seriously one day dur-
ing Ham’s visit. Obviously my virginity con-
cerned her greatly, almost as greatly as it
did my beaux. It concerned me even more. |
had not stopped working in eighteen months
and Ruthie found me more high-strung than
ever.

“You can’t go on like this. You and Ham
have been in love for years. Marry him!’’

Ruthie now had another cause, and one eve-
ning at dinner she led a chorus of friends and
family in a campaign that nominated, elected
and seated Harmon O. Nelson Jr. as my hus-
band. The next day, Ham and I and Ruthie
and Bobby drove to Yuma, Arizona, where
the Reverend Mr. Schalbaugh of the Indian
Mission married us. We drove back to Zuma
Beach right after the ceremony.

I was Mrs. Harmon O. Nelson Jr. I now
had the work and the man I loved—the best
of two worlds. It never occurred to me that
they would or could collide. All my dreams
were coming true. Our “dream cottage’”—
that stage set I had conjured up back at Cush-
ing—was a house on Horn Avenue in Holly-
wood. It was a white, ivy-covered little Eng-
lish house. The guesthouse in the back was oc-
cupied by mother and Bobby.

| wanted us all to be together. Even though
I was now married and was correctly function-
ing as a female, still Ruthie found it hard to
relinquish the remains. She had been in charge
of me for 26 years and it was hard for her to
realize my husband now had that right. I also
found it hard to get away from my family. It
was undeniable that I preferred being a cap-
tive, rebellious Palomine to a free one. Ham
was in a most awkward situation.

Bobby’s security seemed shattered by my
marriage. She felt she had lost me and her
anxieties took on the proportions of a nervous
breakdown. Ruthie went east with her and
rented a house near Dover, Massachusetts.
Since I continued to work at breakneck speed,
leaving the house at six-thirty A.M., and Ham
was working with an orchestra and returned
home at four A.M., we were reduced to writing
notes for a while.

The daily pressures under which I worked
were so great that I would arrive home ready
to explode. Like the businessman who comes
home at six o’clock, irritated, exhausted, eager
to be soothed by a well-run household and a
soft-spoken wife, I would walk through the
door to find Ham in his slippers, relaxing.
Ham, like his father, was the pipe-and-slipper
type of husband.

Ham was working hard; it wasn’t his fault
that he wasn’t making much money. Warners
were slowly increasing my salary and, of
course, there was very little equity in our in-
comes. This didn’t matter in the least to me. I
had a deep belief that a woman shared every-
thing with her husband. And I wanted desper-
ately for my marriage to work. I wanted to de-
fer to my husband, but heaven help me, I came
home ready to explode and I often did.

Ruthie always took my side when a quarrel
ensued. She took my side whether I was right
or not. She knew how important my work was
and refused to have me upset by any domestic
pressures. No doubt Ham had his hands full,
but so did I.

When Ham and I moved to a house on
Franklyn Avenue, I hired my first maid, Dell
Pfeiffer. Dell was large of body and of soul.
She was a great cook, could clean better with
one hand and a hangover than any three peo-
ple; and she loved me and I her in the years
she was with me. She moved from house to
house, never questioning, always adjusting to
new circumstances—and there were many;
the most difficult thing for her was to get used
to my having a new name, and she went
through this a few times.

My disturbances, as she called them, were
what Dell loved and learned to manage so
well. There were tensions. There were battles.
Ham had known that my career was growing,

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and he had found it exciting and wonderful.
He was proud of me. He had no idea how
time-consuming and enervating it was. I
wasn’t earning money for nothing. I was work-
ing constantly and very hard.

Although my name was growing by leaps
and bounds, I was well aware that I was not
being given an opportunity to grow as an
artist. It’s true that we all had more creature
comforts than we had dreamed of. Ruthie was
able to buy her automobiles without the old
concern for monthly payments, but my drive
needed new highways and I realized that I
would have to help pave them myself. What I
wanted couldn’t be achieved from nine to six,
six days a week. I worried about my stagnant
career twenty-four hours a day. And I brought
my worries home with me. I adored my hus-
band, but there were times when he was as dis-
tantly related to my present crises as a fur
trader in the Yukon.

Mr. Arliss again materialized like a genie to
cast me in The Working Man, as his spoiled
daughter. And again with Adolfi at the helm,
Mr. Arliss directed me to advantage.

The Working Man was another big success
and Darry! Zanuck decided that it was time to
give me the glamour-star treatment. It was a
great mistake. I wasn’t ready to be billed as a
star. I wasn’t the type to be glamorized in the
usual way. In an ecstasy of poor taste and a
burst of misspent energy, I was made over
and cast as the star of a piece of junk called
Ex-Lady, which was supposed to be provoca-
tive and provoked anyone of sensibility to
nausea. It is a part of my career that my un-
conscious tastefully hoards. I only recall that
from the daily shooting to the billboards,
falsely picturing me half naked, my shame was
exceeded only by my fury.

It was at this point that I heard that John
Ford was going to make Mary of Scotland,
starring Katharine Hepburn, practically the
only girl of my generation for whom I had ad-
miration and envy. I would have given any-
thing to look like Katie Hepburn. I still
would. Now she was to play Mary Queen of
the Scots with John Ford as the director.

I had read, because of my fascination for
her, every biography or play written about
Queen Elizabeth. I had read the play about
Mary Queen of Scots, in which Elizabeth ap-

CANCER’S WORST ENEMY
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 49

suit! Wide straps and a waterproof cloth
flower pinned at the shoulder seemed a good
idea. What really happened, of course, is that
I didn’t have to remodel anything. I wear
sleeveless dresses easily, and with careful shop-
ping for a bathing suit that will cover a bra
with a falsy, I’m able to swim as I always did.
I have two types of falsies—one for daily wear
and another for swimming that doesn’t get
waterlogged and drag me down to the bottom.

Soon I decided that as a single female in the
highly competitive world of business and sex,
I wasn’t going to give up. Having lost some of
my feminine curves, I’d just have to be that
much more amusing, charming and interesting
to make up for it.

Obviously, external appearances would be
taken care of with a falsy, but I know of no
mental falsy. I was appalled to learn that
thousands who have had breast cancer and
have undergone successful surgery suffer men-
tal depression and physical misery afterward
because of their mental attitude toward it. I
determined I would not be one of those dismal
women who think life has been cruel to them
and never let their friends forget it. But hiding
the calamity seemed even worse. A happy
medium had to be found.

I made sure that everyone at my office knew
exactly what had been done to me and that I
wasn’t embarrassed about it. I made a point
of referring to it somewhere between the first
and second predinner martini on an early date
with the man I later married. Now we’re so
adjusted to it that he even makes little private
jokes and teases me about it sometimes. As he
pointed out, he didn’t want Brigitte Bardot
anyway.

I found that talking about ‘‘my operation”
as casually as if I'd had my tonsils removed

LADIES' HOME JOURNA

peared, which was to be transported to the
screen. I took it upon myself without studio
permission to go to John Ford, who simply
laughed in my face. It is possible that he was
not as unimpressed as he seemed and simp

had been told by Warners to send me home;
but, whatever the reason, he jast laughed and
told me I talked too much. 5 ro

Florence Eldridge, Mrs. Fredric Marc i I
played Queen Elizabeth and I went into a pic-
ture called The Bureau of Missing Persons—
which was appropriate-enough title, I guess.
I was beginning to understand why Jimmy
Cagney was on suspension for refusing to play
a certain part; and I even understood Ann }
Dvorak for disappearing from town because
an infant in one of her films was earning more }
money than she. Our contracts were ouf '
rageous and the security I had dreamed of og Bo
Broadway had become the safety of a prison.
was being handed crumbs by the studio finan-
cially as well as artistically.

About this time I discovered that I was preg-
nant and all studio problems were forgotten
for the time being. My marvelous news was
greeted by Ham with the businesslike, ‘“You’re
much too busy to have a baby. It would be |
stupid to jeopardize your career!”

I was dumbfounded.

Then he came to the point. “You don’t
think I’m going to have you pay the hospital
bills for my baby.”

You, I, mine ! My dream of marriage had no.
such departments. It was absurd. It was our
baby and our money. I was certain that
Mother would be just as shocked as I; but
Ruthie and Ham made a united front against —
me.

Certainly I saw the validity of their argu-
ments. It was stupid, without my husband’s
consent, to burden myself in my professional
struggle. I understood everything intellectu-
ally. I was wretched emotionally.

I did as I was told!

a
ed

i
| nt Yo
-

piu’ You

In the combined July-August issue of Ladies’ ati,
Home Journal—the Summer Issue—Bette Davis i

continues her story of success and failure in
her professional and personal life: how she won _ \iiiriiv
her first Oscar; about her long and costly legal } Ops 0
battle—a losing one—with Warner Brothers; \\°)*)

and the end of her romance. sth
DET IILN

diminished its terrifying proportions. And it
soon disappeared as a topic of interest to
everyone, including me. My only reference to
the episode these days is made when I think it
will help someone else who is facing the same
frightening thing.

My life has taken on new enchantment with
a happy second marriage, a twelve-year-old
stepson, and a contented household to run. I
have never felt better. I do everything I did
before. I swim with the same stroke, I do all
my housework, I do my own gardening—ev-
erything. The only things I find too strenuous
and difficult are tennis and bowling, and those
I'll do without.

I’ve learned to live with tight muscles in my
side and shoulder that feel as though I’m
wearing a light harness. Yet now that a few
years have passed, I’m practically never aware
of it. It’s really not any worse than a snug
girdle, and we all get used to that.

There’s a bonus for a woman in my age
bracket, the forties. The removal of the ovaries
(which is done in a subsequent operation as a
means of eliminating the supply of hormones
to the breasts) brings about menopause with-
out any of the attendant annoyances that
plague us when Mother Nature does the job.
The change is immediate, and if entered into
without groundless fear or expectation of dif-
ficulty, it is a delight. A short period of “warm
flushes,’ which can be controlled and eased
with a pill if needed, is the worst of it. Natu-
rally, in a younger woman with childbearing
years still before her, the mental adjustment is
a much more complex job. Yet if it saves her
life, the effect of the operation must be accepted.

Now each additional year that passes health-
ily since the operation is added proof of cure.
And my record is no great exception. The odds
are in favor of the cancer patient in these days
of medical advancement. The major requisite
is that it be found early. END

EASY AS A JOLCMC 000 Z

wm rmnson |p
stretchiness
saves PIN-UP
SWE

i) @) tinued from page 61

oe Arn rOOieaa i Snide ali toy enctaryen ihe: oa
ceil, | Weleease “il ‘Hy seis |)

fuldn’t your ladies’ club be enchanted with a pink table Floral patterns are always in season for summer settings. We
loors? You can keep it practical with plastic mats, light- chose a flowered plastic plate (from a dinnerware set for 4,
Mezht lacquer baskets for berries. Mat, $1; plate, $2; 4 bever- $18.95) and cotton napkin (for you to make), then echoed
@ sets (ceramic tumbler, lacquered saucer and spoon), $11. their cool blues in a raffia tray ($5), striped goblet (8 for $11).

our through Japanese shops can inspire an Oriental setting; Featherweight accessories will make it easy to carry meals out-
haps a teak tray ($5.50), bamboo mug ($1), corn forks (8 doors; for example, a wicker tray ($2.20), jewel-tone straw

STRETCHABILITY
renews itself with each washing

MORE ABSORBENT
for maximum protection

BETTER FIT
for all size babies

EASIER PINNING
overlaps easily — the stretch does it!
NO BINDING
expands with baby’s tummy

LESS BULK
more comfortable, streamlined size

+ $2.50). For color, add linen napkins and one of the new mat (79 cents), wafer-thin Mexican tin plate (4 for $5). The
iper-thin plastic plates (set of 4 with 12 paper napkins, $2). polka dot tumbler ($1) and the colorful flatware are plastic.

Curity washes softer, smoother in
quality products like Ivory Snow,
Ivory Flakes or Dash Detergent.
Don’t forget Curity dress-up diapers
and double duty night diapers, too.

At leading stores and diaper services.

*,
utterned plates give a ready-made color scheme. We keyed The intense colors of such practical, inexpensive wares as lac-
fabric mat and napkin and an insulated mug to fruits on quer and plastic will tempt you to experiment with bolder color AiGuriny Dicisers

jplastic plate (from a dinnerware set for four, $18.95). schemes than you use in your dining room. Lacquer bowl, 75 yy ERSTE,
i in s -piece setti 511.5 ents; ‘, 79 cents; plastic mat, $1; paper plate, 30 for $1. 2 a
Porgian pattern in steel flatware, 6-piece setting, $11.50. cents; tray, 79 cents; plastic mat, $1; paper plate, 30 f Ss ARNG ER

ABSORB MORE

| urity

S-T-R-E/T‘C-H WEAVE GAUZE

— DIAPERS

eoeeeeeeeree ee eee ee see eee eos eee

ree KENDALL comrany

P.O. 11207 — Dept. J62
Charlotte 9, North Carolina

Enclosed is 25c (coins only) for a new Curity Stretch
Weave Gauze Diaper. Print clearly. Only one to a family.
Name _
| —— : : ; 4 Address i
Zoods look wonderful with citrus colors, here provided by old See how handsome a plain paper plate and plastic cup from
; ; A 5 ; ae 2 - ine 5 Cit d State_
ummer standbys, paper mats and napkins (set of 16 each, a dime store are if you match their colors to a tray (ticking in Y SCSI UN Sng ey SS
2). Matching ceramic demitasse cup and saucer is $2.50. plastic, $5) and napkin. Wood shakers from a dime store, Nioye\slisie ie siwielniele leew! mi eiw 60.0 e a's
cacia-wood plate, hand-carved in Manila, costs $2.50. 88 cents; steel flatware with nylon handles, $4.70 a setting.

EA ACETINI A tage SP WMP RE Frat bs Re eR et Git let a ee ee

pestis

General Electric.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNA

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big 12-pound loads truly clean.

And this new washer has water-saving set-
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every load you wash.

It’s a midget washer with a MINI-BASKET for “washbowl” loads

The MINI-BASKET is an extra washbasket for
those few-piece small you haven’t
wanted to turn on the machine—little ‘‘wash-
bowl’ loads.

Fits over the post, inside the big wash-
basket. Washes gloves, slips, stockings or heavy
wool socks as gently

loads so

Activator®

as your Own hands would.

By any measure...
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The MINI-WASH* system uses 4 the water of
the smallest load in the big washbasket. ‘The
MINI-BASKET lifts off and stores away while
you use the big basket for the regular wash load.

See the washer that’s 2 washers in 1, now at
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MAISEL

) The car sped along the quiet country road. The
driver, well-known surgeon and research scientist
}} Dr. 1.S. Ravdin, was homeward bound. For just a
} second his eyes closed. In that second his car left
the road, struck a telephone pole, caromed off a
} second and came to rest against a third. The car
was practically demolished, but the doctor sur-
vived without serious injury. He knows exactly
why. Some months before the accident he had
# equipped his car with seat belts. He was wearing
| one that day. Sharing what he felt to be important,
i lifesaving knowledge, he wrote a letter to the Med-
ical Tribune, concluding, “I believe that seat belts
should be made mandatory as rapidly as possible.”’

There are 61,700,000 automobiles registered in
the United States. The first nine months of 1961
saw 27,100 Americans die in automobile accidents
} and 950,000 disabling injuries. In one age group,
| the 15-to-25-year-olds, such accidents are a leading
cause of death. Secretary of Health, Education and
Welfare Abraham Ribicoff points out, ‘‘The auto-
mobile, in 1ts comparatively brief lifetime, has de-
stroyed more Americans than all the wars we have

fought since Lexington and Concord.”
/ Suggested causes of this carnage on wheels range
from excessive speed To alcohol (one study of fatal
ql accidents showed 73 percent of drivers had been
drinking), “tailgating,” or following the car ahead
too clgsely (an insurance company investigating
7000 rear-end crashes cited tailgating in 32 percent
| of them), drowsiness or inattentiveness. ‘Loss of
control’ is a general heading; under it fall such
varied items as mechanical defects, one-handed
steering, lighting cigarettes while driving, tuning
| the radio, disciplining the children, swatting at
‘} insects. Illness, poor eyesight, tension and anger,
drugs (among them tranquilizers, amphetamine,
antihistamines), driving with windows closed and
}\ allowing dangerous carbon-monoxide fumes to fill
A | the car—all these contribute to accidents.

There. are blunter theories. A former president
of the American Medical Association blamed “‘hu-
man:-laziness, apathy, carelessness and ignorance”’
for most accidents. Asked what he considered the
greatest handicap the average driver suffers from,
| one traffic-safety expert snapped, ‘‘The illusion
) that he is a better-than-average driver!’’ Nine out
of ten automobile drivers do think that they are
| better than the other fellow, according to pollsters,
) and admit to it pridefully when they’re questioned.

The causes of death and injury on the highway
may be debatable, but no one argues the need to
do a better job of preventing them. Expert studies
are resulting in such large-scale aids as new laws
and better enforcement, stiffer requirements for
drivers’ licenses (license tests every five years to
discover possible vision or hearing loss, frequent
tests for older drivers), driver-education programs,
safer planning and construction of highways. All
this takes time. One simple, immediate step you
can take to guard your life and the lives of your
family is to install seat belts in your car and use
them every time you use the car.

A combined study by the National Safety Coun-
cil, the United States Public Health Service and
the American Medical Association finds seat belts
“the most effective single item of protection equip-
ment available to reduce the toll of traffic injuries
and deaths.”’ Others: door locks that do not spring
open on impact, padded dashboard, a recessed-post
steering wheel. In a collision you have an 80 per-
cent better chance of avoiding death if a seat belt
keeps you from being thrown out of the car. Seat
belts also help prevent “‘buffeting’’ deaths and in-
juries inside the car.

Says A.M.A. president Dr. Leonard W. Larson,
“Tf seat belts were used throughout the country,
more than 5000 lives could be saved yearly and
serious injury reduced by more than half.”’

Dr. Robert A. Wolf, of the Cornell University
automotive crash-injury research program, says,
“Seat belts installed and used in all cars could
bring about at least a 35 percent reduction of
major-to-fatal injuries.”

One special study conducted by Dr. Alfred L.
Moseley, chief investigator, research on fatal high-
way accidents, Harvard Medical School, showed
that seven out of ten fatal accidents he had care-
fully analyzed might not have been fatal if seat
belts had been worn. “It isn’t enough just to install
seat belts and then not use them because ‘I’m only
going a few blocks,’”’ says Dr. Moseley (who also
advocates a program to teach drivers how to deal
with split-second highway emergencies). “If they
aren't in use before the emergency arrives they
can’t save you.”

Famed British racing driver Sir Donald Camp-
bell survived a 300-mile-an-hour crash on the
Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah because he was wear-
ing seat belt and shoulder harness. It is reliably

A Matter
of Life
or Death:

reported that two even more famous Britishers,
Queen Elizabeth and Princess Margaret, have
had seat belts installed in their cars.

With all this evidence in favor of seat belts as a
safety factor, why aren’t more Americans using
them? In part, the answer is “They are.’’ One
manufacturer reports selling 21,300 seat belts a
month. Last year monthly sales averaged 6000.
Some states and some departments of the Federal
Government now require that seat belts be installed
in all state-owned or departmental cars. A number
of states now have legislation demanding that seat-
belt anchorages be a part of all new cars sold in the
state. This year the Auto Industry’s Highway
Safety Committee will distribute 140,000 posters
to promote use of seat belts. Sports-car devotees—
and their number is growing—are apt to be con-
verts to the seat belt, and to pass the word along.

What are the most common objections to seat
belts? How valid are they?

“Suppose my car caught fire and I couldn’t get
out because of a seat belt?”

Fire occurs in only two tenths of 1 percent of
injury-producing accidents.

““Why do I need seat belts? Most of my driving
is on neighborhood errands. I never drive fast.”

In 1958, 66 percent of all fatalities occurred
within 25 miles of the driver’s home, and 47 per-
cent happened at speeds below 40 miles an hour.

“They're expensive.”

Average cost of seat belts, installed: $12 to $15
each. “‘Less than the cost of one day’s hospitaliza-
tion,”’ says Dr. Moseley.

“They're hard to fasten and unfasten.”’

New fasteners are extremely simple.

“Hard to install.”

If you are handy with tools you can install them
yourself.

“Seat belts are confining, uncomfortable.”

Actually, studies show that they relieve fatigue
on long trips, improve posture.

“My children would never wear them.”

They will if you make a game of it (“Fasten seat
belts for takeoff !’’), tell them that racing drivers,
forest rangers, FBI men wear them.

But probably the most convincing argument is
the simple statement of the great scientist who fell
asleep—just for a second—at the wheel of his car:

“T never could have walked away from the acci-
dent had I not been wearing a seat belt.” END

BH Seat Belts

THE PRO DOUBLE DUTY
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Inside rows of firm,
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two types of bristles.
Copied but never equalled.

\:.\

Le
¥ Outside rows of gentle
WHITE BRISTLES in the
PRO Double Duty massage a
gums as you brush... help keep
them firm and healthy... help
combat gumline trouble.
Adult’s and child’s sizes.
Also with Fluoride*.

*Bristle texture improved

by addition of 2% by weight
of Stannous Fluoride,
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bristle with strength
and resiliency
of nylon.

PRO-PHY-LAC-TIC BRUSH CO., Florence, Mass.

—also makers of PRO Combs and Jewelite Hairbrushes

SUMMER PROFITS!

FOOT AND LEG PAIN?

The cause of this foot trouble is nearl
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There is a Dr. Scholl Foot Comfort® Appliance or Remedy for Every Common Foot Trouble

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Quick! Apply Campho-Phenique Campho-Phenique is also won- Campho-

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COLD BUFFET
ON THE PATIO

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 58

egg whites and crushed eggshells, simmer 10
minutes. Strain through double thickness of
cheesecloth. Stir in the gelatin and heat to
dissolve. Add a few drops red food coloring
to tint pale pink. Chill about | cup until thick
and syrupy. Cover salmon with glaze, chill
until set. Arrange sprigs of fresh herb with dec-
orations cut from thinly sliced egg white and
egg yolk on the glaze. Chill another cup of
glaze until thick and syrupy, then pour over
the fish to “‘seal’’ the decorations. Chill, then
pour over another cup of glaze. Serve cold
with lettuce cups filled with cooked mixed veg-
etables: peas, diced carrots, cut green beans and
baby Limas marinated and chilled in French
dressing, also tomato wedges. Serve with Sauce
Jardiniere. Makes 10 to 12 servings.

SAUCE JARDINIERE

1 teaspoon onion juice

1 cup mayonnaise

34 cup finely
chopped, peeled,
seeded cucumber

2-3 tablespoons finely
chopped parsley

2 cups coarsely
chopped celery

2 cups water

1 large ripe avocado

2 tablespoons lemon
juice

1 teaspoon salt

Cook celery with water, then buzz with peeled,
pitted avocado and lemon juice in blender
until smooth. Add salt, onion juice and may-
onnaise and mix until smooth. Chill well. Stir
in finely chopped cucumber and parsley just
before serving. Makes about 12 servings.

FRENCH CHEESE STICKS

’4 cup shortening

1 cup sifted flour

14 teaspoon salt

'é teaspoon cayenne
V4 teaspoon paprika

1!4 cups grated sharp
Cheddar cheese

2 tablespoons ice
water

1 egg yolk

| teaspoon cold water

Cut shortening into flour with a pastry blender
or two knives until it resembles fine crumbs.
Stir in the salt, cayenne, paprika and 1 cup
cheese. Sprinkle in the ice water and mix with
two forks until pastry comes together in a
ball. Chill slightly. Roll out in a rectangle
14”-1e"” thick on a slightly floured board.
Brush surface with a mixture of beaten egg
yolk and the cold water. Sprinkle remaining %
cup cheese over 74 of the pastry; pat cheese
onto pastry, then fold up envelope fashion.
Roll out again into a rectangle 6” wide and
14”—1e” thick. Brush surface with egg-yolk
mixture. Cut into strips 6” long, 144”—14” wide.

A TASTE FOR MARRIAGE

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 45

mother; fhis, the rest of us.) “If you need any
help ——”

Papa winks at him. “Stand by.”

I have three older sisters: Belle, who has a
couple of boys around seven; Claire, who has
three very small girls with pink hair like moth-
er’s; and Janie, who is not married. The girls’
husbands are here weekends and vacations;
they get the honored-guest treatment through-
out the summer. Smart boys.

Janie is different from Belle and Claire. It
isn’t that she is older by a couple of years,
because she looks younger. But she has a look
of happiness—she doesn’t laugh as much as
they do, but she smiles more. Belle and Claire
do a lot of talking about things; Janie muses.

“Why don’t you get married?” Belle asked
her not long ago.

“The world,” Claire put in, “is alive with
men.”

Janie smiled. “Then all I need is a reason.”

Belle is very frank. “I should think being
twenty-nine would be reason enough.”

“Should you?” Janie said—smiling.

Well, maybe time has been the main prob-
lem. During the school year Janie has divided
her time between being librarian at the univer-
sity and tutoring me; during the summers she
has been equally well occupied. It begins when
she and Stella go up to the lodge a few days
before the rest of us and catch mice, stock the

1
; c
mye

LADIES’ HOME JOURN#

Place on greased baking sheet and bake in},
hot oven, 425° F., for 10-12 minutes or uni.
“puffed” and golden. Cool on wire rackijy;\\:
Reheat for a few minutes in a slow oyely)

CANTONESE GINGER-ALE SHERBI

24 cup plus 2 6 tablespoons lemor

tablespoons sugar juice
1 cup water 14 cup pineapple
1 envelope unflavored juice

gelatin 2 pints noncaloric
14 cup orange juice ginger ale

2 egg whites

Heat %4 cup sugar, the water and gelatin uni!
gelatin is dissolved. Cool and add orange jaig)
lemon juice, pineapple juice and ginger
Freeze until almost firm. Remove and beat ui
mushy and return to freezer. When quite fim],
break up into chunks, add egg whites, beate}.,..
with 2 tablespoons sugar until soft peaks for
and quickly beat again. Refreeze. Makes
servings; only 61 calories per serving.

ONE HOT DISH
BY THE POOL

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 59

crisp-tender. Cook macaroni shells in boilif| ‘
salted water according to package directia
Drain and mix with zucchini sauce.

cherry tomatoes for the last few minutes
cooking. Sprinkle grated Parmesan cheese o}
each serving, if you like. Makes 8-10 servin,

CABANA SALAD

3 ounces cream cheese 14 red onion, peeled
3 ounces blue cheese and diced very
Dash liquid hot small

pepper seasoning 3 quarts washed ar
lg teaspoon garlic chilled mixed sa

salt greens; include
Few drops Angostura some young fres
bitters spinach leaves

Allow cream cheese to soften at room te
perature. Crumble blue cheese and add?
cream cheese with liquid pepper seasonin}|""
garlic salt and Angostura. Blend thoroug| jenn
with a spoon. Using a rounded 14 teaspa y Suc
as a measure, drop spoonfuls on a tray. Chi}!
enough so you can handle the mixture. R katt
the tiny spoonfuls into balls, then roll balls il.
diced red onion to coat all over. Chill agaif| ‘
Just before serving, toss cheese balls ligh
with mixed salad greens and add Fren
dressing to your taste. Makes 10 servings.

pantry, make beds, poke snakes out of |
chimney and scrub and clean and so forth. ]
the time we arrive everything is in fine shaj
Mother hugs Janie and says, right in front
all of us, “Darling, you’re the best child
have!” (This is a remark she usually makes?
each of us in private, adding, “But don’t
the others I said that.’’)

At this point Janie’s summer occupation
gins in earnest. Nobody except Janie, accol
ing to mother, is able to tint mother’s hair
exact shade of pink required and make it lo

natural. Whenever Belle or Claire enrage}iiho
Stella by disagreeing with her as to what thel}ing;
children should’ eat and how it should 5} ‘|
cooked, only Janie can restore Stella’s god) *
humor, such as it is. When Belle’s boys, Fl Tt

and Johnny, disappear with the boat, oj
Janie knows where to look for them. Onl
Janie can lure Claire’s three little horrors
the table or naps or bed at night without
bellion. When my mother gets into a tantrul
because somebody left a building toy in pap |
favorite chair and papa sat on it, only Jaml
can calm her down and get a reprieve for |
criminal. When papa. at last, becomes co
furious with the whole family, including 1
mother, for taking advantage of Janie afl
making a slave of her, only Janie can convine
papa that she wouldn’t trade places with a
body. Janie’s idea of bliss, actually, is to
face down on a big warm rock overlooking
lake, and sleep. She has averaged about th
naps a summer.

UNE, 1962

Well. that’s the way it used to be.

Three days before we left town this year—
ve were expecting Janie any minute—mother
eceived a wire: “Visiting friends this week.
Vill join you at the lodge on Friday afternoon.
Nill write you there. Love to papa and every-
yody. Janie.” My mother was mystified and a
jittle shaken, but brave.

When we arrived at the lodge there was
jothing in the pantry but mice; the place
}melled of mothballs and mildew; the furni-
ure was ghostly in dust covers; there were
nakes in the chimney and dead leaves clog-
sing the gutters. We gathered in the big room
ind looked around us, shocked and silent.
All but Stella, who has a dry sense of humor.)
Mother’s jaunty determination to carry on
vithout Janie (for two long days) collapsed.
she hung her pink head, gasped a pitiful little
ob and wailed, “Oh, Robbie!”

Even papa’s automatic my-darling-what-is-
Hhe-matter reflex was slow. “My darling,
vhat ——”

**How could she!”’ she wept on papa’s shoul-
Her. “To go off visiting at a time like this—
10w could she do this to me?”

Papa looked distressed as he always does
hen mother weeps (no matter how often);
elle and Claire looked miserable, as they al-
vays do when papa is distressed; Stella tapped
ne foot and looked at the ceiling; and old
papa shut himself in his room.

“Please, please, don’t cry,” papa said,
fand I'll do anything in the world for you.”
*Me! I’m not thinking of myself,” she wept,
I’m thinking of you.” She turned dramat-
ically to the rest of us and held out helpless
hands. *“What’s going to become of my poor

jor him, the place in a mess!”
“Now mother, I'll make papa’s bed and
tidy up the room,” Claire said.

“Don’t worry about papa’s lunch. I'll help
Stella,” Belle said.

“And these poor neglected little chil-
tren ——” Mother gestured tragically toward
Belle’s boys and Claire’s three little girls, who

ere looking unconcerned.

) Isaid, “I'll take the kids swimming, mother.”
“And poor old papa ——’
“And I'll see to old papa’s luggage.”
In the midst of the intense activity that fol-
owed, mother stood in the middle of the room
rying her eyes and breathing little phrases:
‘Such nice children . . . yes, love, that goes
no, pet, that belongs in the
.. oh, thank you, dear—so thought-
ul. . . . Robbie darling, are you all right?”
Somehow we got through the day. Old papa

pver the banister and caught papa’s eye. Pa-
a’s answering glance said, Jt’s touch and go;

ormal—except nobody dared mention Janie.
Ds |

he next morning—Friday—dawned with a
pertain tension. The weekend was beginning
and the girls’ husbands would arrive in the
vening; the real-estate agent had called say-
ng he was sending up a prospective tenant for
he cottage—and it was the day Janie was
expected? Mother’s mood was still extremely
Helicate. Breakfast found us reflective—but
tareful. _

Claire’s youngest, Suzie, about two, kept
saying, “Janie?”

“Sh-h,” everybody said—except mother,
sho pretended not to hear and went on open-
ng papa’s eggs.

) “Janie?” More plaintive.

**Sh-h.”” Louder.

The talk was general, which was the only
ind of talk safe from mention of Janie.
“What this family needs,” Belle said thought-
ully, and everybody stiffened—but she didn’t
say “Janie’—*‘is an analyst.” Belle majored
n psychology in school. “A family analyst,
ike a family lawyer or a family doctor.” Then
she appeared to think this over and added, “‘I
don’t know, though. An analysis of this fam-
ly might be a catastrophe.”

Claire, whose infants are two, three and
our, and who is expecting another, sighed,
“What’s one more?”

Papa, having forbidden Belle to practice
psychology out loud on the family, patted
laire on the shoulder and gave Belle a severe
ook. “What this family needs,” he said, “is

another nice little girl.” It isn’t just that he
dotes on females, but Belle’s boys frosted the
banister with his pressurized shaving cream
this morning before they slid down.

“All any family needs,” mother said—she
was a little sulky—*‘is an angel like Robbie.”

Papa has a certain noncommittal smile for
some of mother’s remarks. He smiled, and
leaned over and kissed her.

“In biblical days,’ Claire said, “‘the patri-
arch told the family what to do and they did it.
That seems so nice and simple.”’ Claire likes
things simple.

“Ha!” said old papa up in his room. His
one concession to conviviality is to open his
door at mealtime, but he won’t come down.

“What do you mean, ha ?”’ Claire said. “It
would simplify everything.” (Belle gave her a
pitying look.)

“If you mean me, I haven’t the energy, dar-
ling,” old papa said to Claire. ““Having great-
grandchildren has devitalized me—I was afraid
it would. Anyhow,” he added, “‘you people
don’t need a patriarch; there’s more than one
way to skin a cat. If you don’t believe it, watch
your papa.”

Papa laughed in a private way that he has.

“Well, I think the whole thing is very dan-
gerous,”’ I said.

“Family life?”’ asked Belle.

““Well—marriage,”’ I said.

Papa shrugged. ““Hunting big game is dan-
gerous—but some people have a taste for it.”

iNighough we had moved a comfortable dis-
tance from any specific mention of Janie, her
absence was, you might say, still present.
Mother sighed a long quivering sigh.

“Here it is only breakfast time and I’m ex-
hausted already thinking about all the things
to be done!”

Papa took her hand and said, ““Nonsense! I
want you to relax and leave everything to me.
I’m not going to allow you to exhaust your-
self with all this tedious drudgery.”

“But Robbie! Paint the boat and clean the
gutters and string the clotheslines . . . and the
tenant coming . . . and the boys coming to-

night . . . and the leak in the porch roof and
beds and lawn furniture —— Why, I wouldn’t
dream of letting you ——”

“Leave it to me,” papa said firmly.
“How can you children sit there,” she said
indignantly, “and dream of letting your poor

papa —* She was spluttering.
“We wouldn’t, mother ——”
“We will ——”

““We’re on our way.”

While I was stirring copper paint for the
boat, hiding in the bushes from Claire’s in-
fants who had promised to help, Belle slipped
up to me and said, ““You know most of Janie’s
friends at the university, don’t you? Who’s she
visiting?”

“How should I know? There are about a
thousand.”

“Male or female?”

“Both.”

“Well, get on with your chores, little
brother—and get used to them. This is only
the beginning.”

*‘What do you know about this?” I asked.

“I know Janie. There’s only one thing that
would make her forget her family for five
minutes.”

“Some guy? She would have told us.”

“Janie doesn’t talk much. ‘And them what
don’t talk, acts.” Jung, I believe. Help me
string this clothesline.”

“I’m stirring paint. Hey, Flynt, Johnny!
Help your mother!”

They were up a tree. “We're up here,”
Johnny said.

“Well, come down.”

“Oh, who do you think you are, Janie or
somebody?” Flynt said.

“You wait till your old man gets here to-
night, buster. Work your psychology on your
boys, Belle.”

“Threats are quicker. Come down, boys, or
I'll come up.”

“Ha! You can’t climb a tree.”

“Want to find out?”

Pause. “No. We’re coming.”

The three horrors found me.
paint.”

“Go away.”

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“Claire! Come get these kids.”

From somewhere upstairs in the lodge she
yelled, “I’m busy.” I thought, J might as well
be married as the way Iam.

During the course of the morning mother
paid little visits to each scene of activity, man-
aging somehow to look harried and exhausted
in an immaculate green linen dress, and said
to each one of us in a confidential manner:

“Oh, my darling, I don’t know what I'd do
without you. You know, you’re the best child
I have—but don’t tell the others. Are you sure
you’re not working too hard?”

By lunchtime, things were in pretty good
shape.

Even under favorable conditions, lunchtime
at the lodge is hectic. Claire’s infants are just-
before naps and way-past-ready. Mother is
tense for fear they will annoy papa. Actually I
think she is jealous when they fight to have
lunch in his lap and smear him with strawberry-
jam kisses. But today conditions were unfa-
vorable. Janie was coming—probably. I had
been down to the mailbox and had the letter
in my pocket; I was waiting for the best psy-
chological moment to give it to mother. And
then, too, the prospective tenant was due.

We have to be careful about tenants. We’ve
never forgotten the quiet, well-bred Robinsons
who turned out to be food faddists. They spent
the summer trying to convert us to tiger’s milk
and seaweed, and frightened mother half to
death with tales of mass starvation due to
plain cooking; they would always call at meal-
time and grimly watch us eat. After the Rob-
insons, Janie always handled the tenants—she
has a way of anticipating people. The letter
was burning a hole in my pocket.

By the time lunch was under way, Suzie,
who had bitten one of her sisters and was put
in a high chair, finally reached the stage of
fatigue where she put her head on the tray and
sobbed. Papa’s reflex functioned : ““What’s the
matter, my darling?” Too punchy to think,
she wailed, ““Janie.’” Mother, probably in mu-
tual sympathy, took her on her lap, saying,
“Don’t cry, baby. Your papa is coming to-
night. Isn’t that nice? And maybe”—mother
bit her lip—‘‘maybe Janie will come.’ She
sniffled.

I handed over the letter.

“The door,” said Stella, pausing behind my
chair with a tray of iced tea, I went to the door.

“Have you come about the cottage, sir?” I
asked politely, sizing him up.

““Why—ah, yes,” he said tentatively. The
noncommittal type, I thought: hard to please.
But a nice-looking old guy, about thirty-three;
big, good smile, good tweed jacket. He didn’t
look like a deadbeat or a food faddist.

“Just in time for lunch. Come in,” I said.

As we approached the far end of the room
where the table was, mother had just handed
Suzie to papa so she could open Janie’s letter.
Suzie had upset papa’s tea and Stella was
mopping it up. Everyone was tensely watching
mother as she began to read the first page.
But they all looked up at the approach of the
tenant—except mother, who read on. The
girls flipped slightly, and brightened; they be-
gan stirring and murmuring. Papa held out his
hand around Suzie and said, “‘Forgive me for
not getting up.”

“This is Mr. ——” I looked at him.

“Carpenter,” he said, and shook hands with
papa. The girls chimed sweetly how-do-you-do
and won’t you-sit-between-us, Mr. Carpenter?
He did. Suzie, turning in papa’s lap to stare—
as the other children stared—upset the second
glass of tea Stella had brought papa. The ten-
ant got up and lifted Suzie out of papa’s lap
and sat down with her in his own. She howled,
but they started a conversation above the din.

“I understand from the agency that you
have children, Mr.—ah ———” Papa lost the
name as he glanced at mother, who had a
funny look on her face as she read.

“Yes,” said the tenant, “I have two chil-
dren. Here, sweetheart,” he said to Suzie and
handed her a pencil and an envelope to scrib-
ble on.

While papa was saying that the rent was
payable in advance, but that it would be sixty
dollars more for the season because we had
had installed an automatic washer and clothes
dryer, mother had turned to page three. As she
read she put her hand to her throat.

eee

“With a family,” said papa to the tenant, “I
think you'll agree it’s worth the extra consid-
eration. Your wife will, anyhow.”

“‘T do agree, sir, but you see ”” He didn’t
get to finish, for papa was staring at mother.

“My darling, what is the matter?” No re-
flex, this; it came from the heart.

She was sitting bolt upright, clutching the
pages of the letter to her bosom, while silent
tears streamed down her cheeks. Papa jumped
up from his chair and put his arms around her,
saying things to her. Suddenly he took her by
the shoulders and said, “Is anything the mat-
ter with Janie?” He shook her. ““Answer me
this minute!”

“Janie!” Suzie howled at the top of her
lungs.

Claire and Belle turned white. Flynt and
Johnny stopped eating. Stella came out of the
kitchen. Old papa came out on the balcony.

Gasping against her rising sobs, mother
kept trying to speak. ‘““My poor child,” she
whispered tragically at last, ““has lost her mind.
She is insane. Completely, hopelessly insane.”

The relief was almost unbearable—we prac-
tically fell apart. People are always insane
when they disagree with my mother, or do
anything against her wishes. She is very toler-
ant of them; she is kind; she wishes them well,
but... they are insane—completely and hope-
lessly. Of course they recover as soon as they
see mother’s viewpoint; and the recovery ay-
erage is high, because my mother can be for-
midably persuasive.

Janie would recover. She always recovered,
because my mother could do anything in the
world with Janie. She always had.

Papa had taken the pages from mother and
sat down again to read them while mother
held a flowered handkerchief to her mouth.
Flynt and Johnny stared round-eyed at Belle,
who winked at them by way of reassurance:
Claire’s two other infants were trying to join
Suzie in the tenant’s lap; Claire continued
calmly to eat her lunch; Stella retired, But old
papa stood by on the balcony.

As papa read each page he handed it on and
it passed around the table. Mother kept giving
him tragic glances, but he was too engrossed
to pay any attention. Finally she turned in her
chair and looked up.

“Papa,” she said to old papa, “have you
heard what has happened to my poor child?”

Old papa lighted a cigarette and blew the
smoke upward. ““Um-h’m,” he said dryly;
“understand she’s lost her mind.”

“Completely,” she said, ‘‘and ——

“Hopelessly. Yes. Well. Too bad. Janie had
a good mind.”

“My child, papa! My last remaining child!
My—my favorite!” She turned defiantly to
Belle and Claire and me and flung it at us.
“Yes! My favorite!’’” We looked down; it was
no time to laugh.

““May I ask,” old papa said, “what form of
insanity she is exhibiting?”

““She—she’s going to be .. . married!’’ She
broke down in a fit of abandoned weeping and
buried her face in her hands. Old papa grinned
from ear to ear and executed a little jig on the
balcony—a pantomime of joy. Papa, smiling
as he read, glanced up at him. The glance
held some wordless communication. Old papa
recovered himself and folded his arms and
frowned sternly. He continued to stand by.

”

Ag I began to read the page of the letter
papa handed me, Stella poked me in the back.
“‘Another man about the cottage.”

“Another one?” Still holding the page, read-
ing, I went over to the door and let in a nice-
looking guy with a couple of kids. The three
of them advanced, stopped, stared at mother
and retreated a couple of steps. “It’s all right,”
I said, perhaps a little nonchalantly; “if you'll
take a chair, we'll be with you in a minute.” I
couldn’t take my eyes off the letter.

“He is the most beautiful person in the
whole world.”’ Janie’s swift, slanted handwrit-
ing dashed across the page. “‘Except papa, and
he reminds me of papa. I guess that’s one of
the million reasons I love him so much. I don’t
know why he loves me so much, and that’s
what makes it a wonderful thing. Do you
know what he does? He waits on me. Isn’t it
funny—I’ve never been waited on in my life
and I love it. Pll be so lazy you won’t know
me! He teaches here at the university ——”

The second tenant and his kids retreated an-
other step as mother burst forth again: “Not
only is my last remaining child, except one,
leaving me forever,” she wailed, surrounded
by three children and five grandchildren, “but
she is selling herself into slavery. This—this
man—this monster—has children !”

*‘___ such lovely children!” (Page seven of
the letter.) ““They’ve been with their grand-
mother, and don’t remember their mother who
died when they were babies. Elizabeth is Flynt’s
age and Anne is a year younger. And pretty!
You'll adore them, especially papa. It’s mar-
velous to start right off with my own family
(we’re being married right away) and not have
to wait for children. Think of it! I have my
own children. Now I won’t have to borrow
Belle’s and Claire’s and pretend they’re mine.”

‘‘A slave!’ cried mother. ““A poor slave is
all she'll be!”

Please read—

A Very
Personal

Note

NEXT MONTH the JOURNAL will go
on vacation—with you!

One gala Summer Issue of the
JOURNAL will appear in place of the
July and August issues. There will
also be a large Winter Issue for the
months of January and February,
making a total of ten issues of the
JOURNAL each year. (See page 107
for details on how to purchase a
12-issue subscription for the 10-
issue price.)

All subscriptions will be extended
two issues for each year presently
paid in advance.

If you buy your JOURNAL at a
newsstand, you will find the Sum-
mer Issue on sale during July and
August at the regular single-copy
price of 35 cents.

—The Editor

Papa glanced up toward the balcony and
caught old papa’s eye. They exchanged one of
their wordless communications. Papa’s glance
clearly stated, Fire one!

The room and everybody in it jumped as old
papa boomed out, “S/ave! Ha! Out of the
frying pan into the fire! What do you think
she’s been around here for years?”

Mother gasped and spun around to stare at
old papa. Papa lighted a cigarette and just
before the smoke obscured his face he nodded
to old papa again: Fire two.

Old papa bellowed, “That child has waited
on you hand and foot! She’s done everything
around here from dye your hair to bring up
your grandchildren. You just know a good
thing when you’ve got it, and you don’t want
to let it go!”

The second tenant and his kids had moved
as far as the door now. The first tenant, with
Claire’s three in his lap and Belle’s boys hang-
ing over the back of his chair, was whispering
with the children and handing out peppermint
he had fished from his pockets.

“If you stand in that child’s way,” old-papa~-anybody.” And he winked at papa.

went on, “or make her feel guilty, fifty years
old or not, over my knee you'll go!”’ He raised
his arm above his head and waggled his finger.
“It’s high time somebody took you in hand!”

““Robbie!”” Mother was breathless. “Do you
hear what papa is saying to me? Are you go-
ing to /et him say these things?”

LADIES’ HOME JOUR

“He is your father, my dear,” papa
swered piously. Mother stared at him wu:
lieving for a moment before she dropped
pink head and buried her face in her hai
Papa nodded once more to old papa—so:
thing like Let ’er rip / And old papa took a
This time for the bull’s-eye.

“Td like to know,” he shouted, ‘“‘what’s
matter with Rob that, in thirty years, he hag
been able to straighten you out! What kine
a man is he, if he is a man?”

She was out of her chair like a tigress—
eyes blazing green fire, fists clenched and bos
heaving. ““How dare you!’ Her voice was
and trembling with rage as she crossed
room and stood just below him, glaring
““How dare you say a thing like that abd
Robbie? Let me tell you something SS

While she told him, papa leaned back ig
chair and blew smoke rings. The first tend
watched papa, his eyes dancing with admi
tion; the second tenant and his children
the door open now but waited, apparently
mute fascination, to hear what it was mot
was going to say.

oli gist of what she said was that papa
a prince among men and an angel among h
bands; that old papa was an interfering bul
she didn’t care if he was her father; that s'
wasn’t going to allow him to stir up trouble
a happy, loving family, so he needn’t try—
could just stop right now. And she wanted hi
to know that Janie was going to have the m
fabulous wedding since the Queen of She}
and that anybody who tried to stand in h
way would have her (mother) to deal wit
And as for Janie’s poor little motherless ch
dren, just let anybody dare so much as imp
that they weren’t welcome in this family! Wh
they were her grandchildren, that’s what thd
were—and how did old papa like that !

Then she tossed her head and turned hj
back on him. She addressed the table. O
papa had lost his mind. He was insane. Co:
pletely and hopelessly. They must be very kin
to him, but simply not take notice of anythi
he said.

The last page of Janie’s letter dashed along
“IT know you will love Andrew. He will lo
you too. Take care of him till I get there. H
will arrive about noon on Friday. I'll come o
the two-thirty train. Andrew will meet me <
the station. My love to you all, especial
papa.”

There were two postscripts. One read: “]
the cottage hasn’t been rented, could Andrey
and the children and I have it this summer?
The second one read: ““Mother dear, don’t b
cross with me for sending Andrew on aheaj
to break the ice. I think if he meets you b|
himself for the first time, he will see you as yo}
really are—so sweet and wonderful—and the
won’t be any—forgive me, mother—scenes.}

I put the page down and looked at the tw
tenants. Mother had just discovered their pres
ence. She wavered between embarrassmen|
and confusion. Confusion won.

“Ts one of you—but which one of you ——*

The second tenant and his children simp]
backed through the door and shut it. Mothe
turned to the first one.

“You?”

He nodded. “‘Me.”

“He’s Andrew,” Flynt announced proudly

Johnny said, ““He’s going to meet Janie
train and we’re going with him.”

“So are we,” shrieked Claire’s infants and
began standing up in his lap.

At the end of ten minutes which spun like
merry-go-round in a madhouse; mother had
hugged and kissed everybody in the entif¥
family, including Andrew (and old papa, wha}
had not only recovered his sanity, but ha
come downstairs). But she was close to tears
again.

‘““My next-to-last child married! I’m afraid
I'm getting to be middle-aged,” she said
wistfully.

Old papa said, “I wouldn’t try to convince

“Sometimes I think you are both laughing
at me,” she said.
“Nonsense, darling.” Papa put his arm
around her. ““You are a very serious matter,
Of course, any woman is. But some,” he
added, “tare a more serious matter than others.’
END

URI

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LADIES’ HOME JOURN |
UNE:

OLD FOLKS
at

HOME

BY CHARLOTTE EDWARDS 0

Yesterday I went to visit a friend in one of
those fine chain nursing homes. We had a
good talk, and I managed to get almost all
the way out keeping my glance straight
ahead. I did not peek into private rooms,
or private lives. I did not want to see from
each doorway the eager, painful swing of
heads, the sharp squashed hope on each
face which found me a stranger.

I was stopped at the door by an old man
in a wheelchair. He looked up at me out of
eyes covered with fog. He asked in a voice
as faint as far rain, ‘““Will you kiss me,
please ?”’

I did, and, thank God, I didn’t hesitate.

All the rest of the day I walked with
fury. I knew the man, I knew his son, his
daughter-in-law, his proud quartet of
grandchildren. I knew their civic place,
their big home and social accomplishments.

The nurse had asked me, ‘“‘Will you come
to see him again? Could you? Nobody
comes to see him, ever. It’s killing him.”

Not his body dying, alone. That he could
bear. His spirit, unwanted, discarded, dy-
ing in fragments because, in truth, there is
no room for him.

I am still angry.

Old Mrs. Ames had a stroke, sudden,
violent, in the middle of a sentence. It left
her unable to communicate, gone on her
right side and wildly afraid.

The doctor said to her daughter-in-law,
“Send her to the hospital for the length of
her insurance, then to a nursing home. It
would be hard on you to help her come
back. We don’t want two sick people
around here.”

So, off went Mrs. Ames, nothing to pro-
test with except her agonized fearful eyes.
The hospital was full and busy. She stayed
there quite a while. She managed to sit up
again, to take a few steps hanging on to the
rails of a steel walker. To say a few words
thickly: “I’m fine. Better, thank you.” All
her friends came to see her—once.

The nursing home was_ beautifully
graded and planted outside, immaculate
and hushed inside. The food was excellent.
The nurses were kind and sunny. For half
an hour a day, one of them helped Mrs.
Ames to dress and walked her up and down
the hall, to prove it could be done.

No callers came. Except during the week
her daughter-in-law was in and out a pair
of times on her way to somewhere; and
once a week all of them came, her son and
the sullen, forced grandchildren, eyes
clipping back and forth to their watches.

Had Mrs. Ames been deeply gone in ill-
ness, of course, trained personnel would
have had to care for her. But Mrs. Ames
and a solid majority of the patients in
nursing homes can do small things for
themselves. They could even do small
things for others, given the chance.

To be at home is a big thing. Just to go
to bed at night, and know that in the other
rooms around yours is your own family if
you need them in the dark hours. To know,
even, that should you die in your sleep no
stranger will find you in the morning.

To wake in the morning, full of aches
and confusion, and be oriented by the
sounds of grandchildren getting ready for
school, son or daughter showering for the
day, cooking smells coming from a home
kitchen, can mean the difference between
a day of living and a day of depression.

But how many get that chance?

In the night, after the great and terrible
shock, let Mrs. Ames’s son be in the room
with her, as she so often was with him
when he was young and afraid. Let her

here :
hed

son’s hand touch her when she stirs, wk *
her eyes plead, Will it be all right? Let hy ¢
say, “It’s all right, mother.”

Take that first process of trying to ée
Let her have someone she loves and trus|””
who loves her, say, “Open, hold, @a|””
swallow.” Let her try to talk in a str pile
new muffled voice. “All right?” Let}
grandchild say, “Good, nana, I understal
you.” q cup

Let them all say, substituting a stro the
arm, a warm hand for the cold walker baj) M
“Try, dear. You can do it.” i

And the first bath. How much easier ills.
is given by known hands. Later, when Mh (i
Ames sits up for guests, who can possit}ocl
measure how important the careful makeyp, |
the foundation to cover new circles apioa
lines, the lipstick, the pin curls and mayer,
cures are to the suddenly thin and wrink]js «
face and hands, the disturbed hair, ths
troubled self-respect ?

Who can possibly measure what it mea) (
to get slowly, slowly into a car and go |,
the supermarket for the special delicaci¢| _,,

Old Mrs. Ames and the little man in tf]...
wheelchair are repeated thousandsfc a
everywhere today. Sons, daughters, grary )
children work overtime, use their savinj| ay
sometimes borrow, to send the stricken 0
away to “give her the best.’’ | pow

They have reasons. The house is t) ,,
small. The husband wants his wife to
free in the evening. It’s too hard on you)»
people and their friends to live in the auf“?
of age and poor health. i

The simple truth, though, when boil!"
down to essence is: it costs too much. Pj"!
tience, kindliness, gentleness, firmne! el
strength, time. It takes all of them—frel™
the heart outward. The gift of self is t
greatest, hardest of all to give.

Our ancestors broke their backs to mai} au
tain their self-respect and considered | pé
debt, no matter to whom, a thing to }ha
paid first. And their debt to their parent} ¢h
aged and ill, or even to second-cous}4)
spinster ladies, was one they paid witho) ¢h
considering themselves strained, or nobif3!

They did not demand a built-in contra) ¢
which said the old folks would always |) pi
cheerful, charming, brave and apprecijj«i
tive, either. They accepted them as humi| «x
beings, ornery even when well, more stu
born and resistant, often, when illness fj
them. But our ancestors, reaching back 1 m4
their memories, could find pictures of thet}...
buxom, strong, sure, a source of help at
even joy, in better, younger days. as

Old Mrs. Ames’s children can do t) +
same thing. If they’ll remember. If they) i
try. Her grandchildren, to whom she reg tk
by the hour when they were small, now cé
read to her.

The schools cannot raise our children f
us and set personal examples of unselfis}

ness and decency for them. The Gove gl
ou

ment cannot pay our way or make our @
cisions for us as to patriotism, honesty, ii] *
tegrity. The churches cannot practice af”
religion for us. The libraries cannot pol)”
knowledge into us. The scientists cannl a
design a heart for us. Teachers cannot gif ta
us pride. Space cannot show us tf
democracy. God Himself cannot lift ij
above the level of the delicately col);
structed thinking, feeling animal. q
We have to do it ourselves! hee
My mother had a stroke almost a yeibicy
ago. She can dress herself completely @hel
cept for garters, lipstick, pearl necklat}to
and earrings. Today she is going out wil);
a well friend of hers to visit the “poor Ol);

souls”’ in several nursing homes. ENfia
fo

INE, 1962

|
|

CHEESE-AND-DEVILED-HAM
SOUFFLE
tablespoons butter
or margarine
tablespoons flour
4) cup milk

2 tablespoons grated
Parmesan

1 can (414-0z.)
deviled ham

V4 teaspoon salt

lg teaspoon paprika

Dash cayenne

1 cup grated sharp
: | Cheddar cheese

#) Make a thick cream sauce with the first
hiree ingredients. (2) Stir in slightly beaten egg
»Iks, cheeses, ham, salt, paprika and cayenne.
}) Cook and stir 5 minutes. Taste for salt.
Pool. (4) Beat egg whites until stiff but not

ito a 1 '4-quart soufflé dish. (5) Bake in a slow
en, 325° F., for about 45 minutes, or until
Vist set, “puffed” and golden on top. Makes
|-6 servings.

CHEESE-MUSHROOM RAREBIT

} quart hot medium 34 teaspoon dry
cream sauce mustard

} pound mushrooms, 4 teaspoons

) sliced Worcestershire
onions, chopped sauce

cup butter or 2 teaspoons salt

| margarine 14 teaspoon pepper
| pound sharp Cheddar

| cheese, grated

| ) Sauté mushrooms and onions in butter or
| argarine until pale golden. (2) Add to cream
auce with cheese. (3) Mix mustard and
orcestershire sauce, add to sauce with salt
§nd pepper. (4) Cook and stir until cheese
Jnelts. Serve over slices of toasted French
read. Makes 5-6 servings.

CHEESE-AND-EGG SALAD

j ounces Edam cheese, 1 teaspoon dry

) peeled and diced mustard
\ hard-cooked eggs, 1 teaspoon prepared
chopped horseradish

14 teaspoon salt
lg teaspoon pepper
Vs teaspoon curry

| ; 3 tablespoons
4} chopped pimiento

3 tablespoons

| chopped sweet powder
}) pickle 14 cup French
> cup dairy sour dressing

14 cup water

cream
1 Lettuce cups
=

) Mix Edam cheese, eggs, pimiento and sweet
ckle. (2) Blend together in a bowl the sour
F-eam, mustard, horseradish, salt, pepper,
rry powder, French dressing and water. (3)
oss cheese-egg mixture and sour-cream dress-
ig together. Cover with saran or aluminum
Pil and chill. Serve in crisp lettuce cups.
Jakes 4—6 servings.

| SHRIMP-AND-CHEESE PIE
3,(9”) unbaked pie
shell
Jounces Swiss cheese,
grated
ounces processed
| Gruyeére cheese,
| grated 14 teaspoon pepper
tablespoon flour Dash cayenne

2 tablespoons grated Parmesan

8 ounces cooked,
Shelled, deveined
shrimp

3 eggs

1 cup light cream

Vs teaspoon salt

})}) Toss Swiss and Gruyére cheeses with flour.
2) Spread °4 of cheese mixture in pie shell. (3)

thop shrimp and add. (4) Cover with remaining
eese mixture. (5) Beat remaining ingredients
cept Parmesan together and pour into pie
ell. Sprinkle Parmesan over top. (6) Bake in
Jhot oven, 400° F., for 15 minutes; reduce heat
I) slow, 325° F., amd continue baking about
) minutes or until a silver knife inserted in
‘enter comes out clean. Let stand 10 minutes
iefore serving. Serve warm. Makes 6 servings.

‘Lalk About
CHEESE!

By ELAINE HANNA

here are endless varieties of native-born and foreign cheeses to suit every taste and
100d—mellow Monterey Jack, nutty Parmesan, Pennsylvania pot cheese, or a shelfful of
heddars, each a specialty of its own home state. Here are some of the Journal’s favorite
ind popular cheese recipes—try them soon and discover a new world of exciting flavors.

CREAM CHEESE, CHIVES
AND RED CAVIAR
2 (3-0z.) packages
cream cheese

2 tablespoons cream
5 tablespoons chopped

2 ounces blue cheese, chives
crumbled 1 jar (4-0z.) red
1 tablespoon grated caviar
onion

(1) Blend cheeses, onion and cream until
smooth. (2) Stir in the chives. (3) Form mixture
into a mound, make a depression in top and fill
with caviar just before serving. Serve with
crackers, as an hors d’oeuvre. Makes 1 cup.

NEAPOLITAN BAKED LASAGNE
1 pound lasagne
noodles
3 (1014 02z.) cans

8 ounces ricotta cheese
1 pound Mozzarella,
sliced, or pizza cheese

Spaghetti sauce Salt
with meat Pepper

14 cup grated Pinch crushed red chili
Parmesan peppers

(1) Cook noodles in boiling salted water ac-
cording to package directions until just tender
(‘al dente”). Drain. (2) Pour 1 cup spaghetti
sauce into a shallow 3-quart casserole. Cover
with 14 of the noodles, sprinkle with 2-3 table-
spoons Parmesan, | cup sauce, about 14 cup
ricotta, 13 of the slices of Mozzarella. Season
with salt and pepper. (3) Continue to alternate
layers of ingredients until all are used (you'll
have three layers). End with a final spreading
of sauce, Parmesan and chili peppers. (4) Bake
in a moderate oven, 350° F., 30-35 minutes
until hot and bubbly. Makes 6 servings.

CROQUE MONSIEUR

5 thin slices cooked
ham

2 eggs, beaten

Butter or margarine

2 cups grated Swiss
cheese
14 cup cream

10 slices bread

Swiss-Cheese Sauce:
1 cup hot medium
cream sauce
34 cup grated
Swiss cheese

\4 teaspoon salt
14 teaspoon pepper
Dash cayenne

(1) Beat cheese and cream in mixer to form a
smooth paste. (2) Trim crusts from bread. (3)
Spread each slice with cheese mixture. (4) Put
1 slice ham between 2 slices bread (cheese
sides together). (5) Dip the 5 sandwiches into
beaten egg and sauté in hot butter or mar-
garine until golden on both sides. Serve with a
generous ladling of hot Swiss-cheese sauce.
(6) Sauce: Add cheese and seasonings to
sauce. Cook, stirring, until cheese melts.

PINEAPPLE CHEESECAKE
2 cups graham-cracker 2 eggs
crumbs 14 cup plus 2
16 cup sugar tablespoons sugar
V4 cup butter or 14 cup drained,
margarine, melted crushed pineapple
2 (8-0z.) packages 2 tablespoons flour
cream cheese, 1 cup dairy sour cream
softened 2 teaspoons vanilla

(1) Mix crumbs, sugar and butter or marga-
rine. Press into bottom and up sides of a 9”
spring¥orm pan to form a crust. (2) Cream the
cheese until smooth. (3) Beat eggs slightly with
14 cup sugar, add pineapple, flour and | tea-
spoon vanilla. Blend cheese and egg mixture.
(4) Pour into crust and bake in a moderate
oven, 375° F., for 20 minutes. Remove, let
stand 15 minutes. (5) Combine sour cream,
remaining 2 tablespoons sugar and | teaspoon
vanilla. Spread on top of baked filling. (6)
Bake in a hot oven, 425° F., for 10 minutes
more. Cool, chill overnight before serving.
Makes 8-10 servings.

MECC

spaghetti sauce mix
complete with tomato

CHEF BOY-AR-DEE

SHASTA.....

DIETETIC peverace *

Failure ?

@ When we set out to create Low Calorie Shasta, we set up two goals. First,
it should taste just as good as regular Shasta. Second, it should have less than
five calories per can.

>, hands down. Low Calorie Shasta tastes great.
tes, it is indistinguishable from regular Shasta.

We achieved goal number one

In fact, even to educated palat

On goal number two, however, we failed. Even though we cut sugar out en-
tirely (we use Sucaryl®), we

can. Six,

could only get the calorie count down to six per

not five. But on the other hand, what’s one calorie between friends?

ROOT BEER/ORANGE/COLA/LEMON-LIME/GRAPE/BLACK CHERRY/CREME/GINGER

The February rain predicted for evening had already begun: no after?
noon walk for the baby and me. Disappointed, I sat down in the nursery
chair and began to plan how to spend the hours before preparing dinner
Ironing? Polish silver? I had one eye on the baby, my fourth, and sud
denly it struck me how amusing his antics were. He looked adorable
sitting on the rug straight-backed, wide at the base like a little pyramid)
hair curly and damp from exertion. With a yelp of delight he headed fo
a stuffed animal under the bathinet, after which he began to tour the
room, stopping to pat or stroke each piece of furniture, as though to put
himself in touch with the structure of everything around him. As h
crawled, his parted lips dribbled a little trail of silver behind him on thé
rug, like a snail. Having completed his exploration, he sat in the middle
of the room and began his familiar squawk of boredom. I picked him up
and took him to the window. There, his feet against the sill and body
pressing against me, we watched the drops creep down the pane and
bedraggled dog shake himself over a lady on the corner.

When I set him down again I gave him the closed can of baby
powder to play with. Then I shut the door, sat and leaned my head}
against the chair, thinking, For the first time in a long while, I’m here for.
no other reason than to be with him. Not to pick him up to go somewhere, to
take his brother to the dentist or sister to a lesson; he’s not on his way to his
pen, high chair or bed. For once I'll just enjoy him and he me.

As I sat quietly watching and answering his repeated “Da?” Tj
realized how little time I had left for such enjoyment. All too soon his}
body would no longer be round and soft, nor his mannerisms the en-}
chanting ones of babyhood; he would no longer want to be held and
played with. Why was I so often in a hurry to change his diapers, put on
his little shoes, pull on his snowsuit, in the evening to pop him into his crib?)

In every part of my life I was continually thinking ahead, rather)
than enjoying the task in hand. When had I last stopped to look out at, ;
the garden, or waited—quietly accessible—for the children to come and)
talk, to find my attention undividedly theirs? '

I resolved that afternoon that everything I did for my baby and’
with him, I would do for the pleasure in the doing; so for the rest of the |
family too. I must recollect myself, not squander the enjoyment of the]
life I had chosen to live. When making a bed, instead of thinking, Now |
after this I will throw in the wash, vacuum the living room, and then it will be |

lime for the baby’s bath, 1 would enjoy smoothing the pillows, pulling }

straight the sheets. I would take pleasure in the smell of suds and steam |
while getting the wash into the machine; enjoy the look of the chosen }
things in the room to be cleaned rather than attack the cleaning of them;}
see the form and color of vegetables, savor flavors and smells, get satis- |
faction out of deft peeling, chopping, beating.

There is no reason why the places in which one’s day is accom- |

plished should not give visual pleasure. I remember an exhibition of Jap- }

anese artifacts: a sewing box, a child’s writing case, a shelf. Each article |
had been exquisite in its own right, perfectly shaped, painted in a mar- |

velously light and delicate fashion; to mend a tear or take out a pencil |

must have been a constant delight. So, I thought, Jet the bowl you break

eggs in be a pretty bowl; hang prints or keep a flower arrangement where you}

can glance at them as you wash the dishes, and use your good china so that)
the washing is not a chore; in every room have books, pictures and objects you
love to pick up, glance through, hold. Let your house, your work, your child |
be your satisfaction; they are already your choice. ;

Since that day my life has seemed invested with a tranquillity I}
would scarcely have thought possible with four small children. Keeping |
house is not a trap. A woman who by small but continuous efforts creates
an atmosphere of contentment and order, where life may be simply en-
joyed and lovely things used for the pleasure they give in themselves,
realizes her full potentiality. Her greatest possibilities for growth and
contribution to society consist in transmitting learning, wisdom, order }
and beauty not to the world at large but personally—by example
mainly—to a few: her family. END

Room
looks So
pretty in
-~ your »
Powder

Room

HEAVENLY SOFT two-ply tissue
in decorator colors

Now! hy

Ss
ST PAPER MILLS, BELLINGHAM. WASHINGTON
[PUGET SOUND PULP AND TIMBER COMPANY

SUGAR

A Di Promised Land flowed with milk and
_ honey.

Solomon has milk and honey under her
tongue. The story of how the sweet tooth
has sought gratification is a long and
varied one, still continued into the scien-

The beloved one in the Song of

tific present. In the beginning, when man’s

food was all provided by the fruits of

nature, without benefit of tools or cookery,
it seems that wild honey was his great die-
tary luxury. Bees are pictured in Egyptian
hieroglyphics and tomb paintings as early

as 5510 B.C., and honey was used in tem-
ple worship in 2500 B.C. A Stone Age
drawing in a Spanish cave shows a man
robbing a wild-bee tree. Fossil bees are
found all over Europe, and in early Eng-
land rents were paid in honey, anda record
of all hives was kept in the Domesday
Book. Honey was the chief ingredient of
two great fermented Anglo-Saxon drinks,
mead and metheglyn. It was believed to
have mystical virtues and was early used as
a love philter. In India it was the basis of
soma, the drink of the gods, and a drop

ae
cies

Why we’re stingy with our label. Because the SaW labelstands for foods
that are not just acceptable, but perfect. In a good year, as much as the top 15%

yf a given |
C don’ [ pa

think nc

1nen W

)p may measure up. In an off year, none may meet S&W standards.
ack any. We are perfectionists, we are fussy. Too fussy? Our cus-
if you, too, are a perfectionist about food, you'll want only SxW.

LADIES’ HOME JOURN)

was placed on the tongue of newborn be
babes.

In early Christian symbolism, the b
was the emblem of virginity, and all voti
candles had to be made from beeswa
Even today the old folklore lingers on
the idea that bees, when disturbed
swarming, will single out an unchas
person and sting him.

In Greece and Rome old philosophe
retired to their farms and kept bees, ar
the “honey of Hymettus” is still fragre
in old poetry.

Not until man became an inventive ar
tool-using animal did cane sugar begin
supplement and then to supersede
ancient sweet. But the knowledge of can
too, dates to prehistoric times, when w
doubtedly it was chewed long before i
juice was boiled and crystallized into wh
we now know as sugar. It, too, had mag
qualities. Nature myths grew up about
as with other valuable foods. It
thought medicinal, a digestive and a pri
moter of sexual vigor. Religious rites 4
tended its planting. It was the first foe
eaten by Buddha after his long fast and h
enlightenment.

The earliest recorded data about sugi
cane is from India, dated 325 B.C., and)
cane mill is mentioned in Buddhist liter
ture not later than A.D. 100. In the six)
century sugar makers, “boilers of
cane,” were found in Northern Bengd
Rice pudding with sugar, a fermen
drink with sugar and spice are mention¢
there; and at Delhi, sherbet—sugar wat
cooled with snow.

‘ugar boiling was known to men

Southeast China by A.D. 640. Mar¢
Polo in his Travels describes their clevs
work, and their hard sugar, which the
called “stone honey.” The art of sugj
boiling traveled into Persia in the sixi
century. Then by the outreaching a
conquering Arabs it was spread throug
the Mediterranean world.

Later on,inthe fifteenth century, the poy
erful seagoing Spanish and Portugual
carried cane culture into Northern Afriqyy
and the Madeira, Cape Verde and Cana |
islands and finally into the New Worl

In the fifteenth century sugar began
supersede honey in England. It was st]
a costly luxury, “prestige food,” a pour}
of sugar being priced at one or two poun dj
Cookery as a high art had come in wil
the Normans, and now the banquets |
the rich culminated in fantastically elajj
orate pastries and confections built of tl}
fine white sweet. Pastry cooks have be
knighted for their artistic “creations” ]
fine sugar and “gum dragon.” With t
importation of tea, coffee and chocola
and the fashionable era of the coffeehou
in England, the consumption of sugar
greatly increased.

The whole history of sugar as one of t
great modern commodities is a story Wj
human progress in chemical, mechanie}
and agricultural science. Like all such ||
man tales, it has its dark andsecret unde
tones; in this case, the knowledge that %
traffic in human slavery grew with sug fie
cultivation, and died away only with th Ma
rise of laborsaving machinery.

The description of modern processes |
sugar growing and manufacturing, mi
chines and methods is a story by itself— 4
great story, showing how a desired foc hey
has been made accessible to all but thy)
very poorest of the world’s people.

Long gone are the days when a “‘loai
of hard white sweetness was a distil

guished gift to be given to your lord of tl
manor, or even to your queen.
MARY K. BLACKMA

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CANADA

Happy is the bride
with a Gala Gift
from our all-occasion

Shop-by-Mail collection

MAD.

No drip allowed in room
Attractive on-the-spot way to prevent
wet umbrellas from rain-spotting your
floors—put this gracefully designed
umbrella stand right in your foyer. In
lightweight, brass-finish metal with
handle and smart footed base. $9 ppd.

New in stainless steel

Sleek contemporary-style chafing dish
in silver-sparkle stainless steel to com-
plement her table...to keep casserole
dishes piping hot, and the hostess
coolly composed. 2)4-qt. capacity.

Walnut-finish wood handles. $16 ppd. ,

SUSAN DALE, Dept. FJ6-2

Please send me items checked below:

Orders sent Postage Paid in U.S.
0.D.’s. No stamps, please.

Mai! this ORDER FORM, Today! Satisfaction Guaranteed!
195 North St., Teterboro, N.J.

_] Chandelier @ 13.00 [Fruit Coasters
() UmbrellaStand @ 9.00 [ Hot-bun Basket
(_] Spice Shaker @ 5.00 [Chafing Dish

Add spice to your life

Unique spice unit, polished metal
with walnut wood combines salt shaker
and pepper grinder. Machined tool-
steel grinder adjusts for fine or coarse
pepper. Gift packed with jar of gen-

uine Malab peppercorns. $5.00 ppd.

Real antique-likeness
True jewel of a bracelet with line-up
of fourteen stick-pin reproductions,
rich “antique golden look” enhanced
by variety of gem-replicas . .. garnet,
amethyst, emerald, turquoise, pearl,
diamond, lapis, coral. $5.50 ppd.

@ 2.00 [Bracelet @ 5.50
@ 10.00 [)Pin-upLamp @ 5.00
@ 16.00 [Serving Cart @ 13.00

ADD!

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8-pe. fruit coaster set
Look luscious enough to eat—colorful
fruit-design vinyl coasters with foam
rubber backing to protect your tables.
Decorative holder-basket with true-to-
nature assortment of fruit... a delight-
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Popular pin-up favorite

Charmingly styled pin-up lamp adds
a decorative note wherever you place
it. Handsome tole in black with con-
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LADIES' HOME JOURNAL ~

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non-breakable. Magnificent with 3
tiers of prism-effect pendants. 8” dia.,
11” deep. Brass-finish chain. $13 ppd.

And some like them hot
Gourmet’s delight—this zippered bun
warmer, a continental-style bread
basket with electric heating unit to
keep rolls, buns, toast, and French
bread, hot and at your fingertips.

Plaid cozy is washable. $10.00 ppd.

At your service, madame
Handy hostess helper makes entertain- |
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serving cart, marlite trays in hand-
some brown walnut finish. Easy to

wheel about on 3” lucite casters. Size
31” h. x 28” |. x 15” w. $13.00 ppd.

INTINUED FROM PAGE 47

identity, and they saw to it that Mary
ne signed her name in two places. They

jader package.
Mary Dane knew what the package con-
ined, but she stood for long minutes, staring
Pits brown outer wrappings. She knew that
Jide she would find the glowing, rose-colored
and which her grandmother’s mother called
he Roses,” and which the family spoke of as
/firannie’s pink pearls.” Except that no one
jew they were pearls.
‘The Roses are insured, Mary Dane, but if you
jnt to wear them without danger to them or to
ju, their value must be secret. The Roses are so
iectacular in color that everyone takes it for
ty jnted that they are “beads.” As for me, I al-
ys enjoyed my little joke, knowing privately
jit I was worth more than a quarter of a million

gllars standing on my two bare feet.
/Afterward, in remembering that day, Mary
jy ne thought of it as having the qualities of a
ram. She could remember standing before
e mirror, clothed only in the Roses. She
juld remember sitting on a small stool, look-
2 through the bankbooks that recorded her
ine years of work, frugality, savings. She re-
2mbered making note of the total she had
ed, $6294.17, and calculating roughly that
)she were to save that amount every nine
ars for the next three hundred and sixty
ars, she might by then have saved enough

' buy the Roses.

COMMENCEMENT
NOSEGAY

| circa 1910
i) By ELIZABETH HENLEY

\) Children go and the grandmothers

it pass—
| What do we keep to the end of it
all?
A moss rose flattened to lace by
glass,
A heathery sprig—and none to
recall
Sun on the hill or a brown-eyed
lass.
‘‘Keep,"’ says the handwriting slant
and small,
But life returns like a rose to the
grass.

What's last parted ofall they
* amass?
Crumbles and dust from cartons
fall
Truriks there were, locked and
bound with brass.
! Nobody wants what no closet
wall
Expands for, holding the senior
class
Grave and so fair by some
nameless hall—
The heart has limits, and locks no
less.

Let him who asks us where are
the snows
Of yesteryear be the first to cast
The stack of yearbooks that glacial
; grows—
| send not back the wreaths that
last
And cannot bear to, goodness
knows.
Saving and storing a rose of the
past,
Life returns to the grass like a
rose.

Slipping through her mind, like words on
tape, were passages from Grannie Winship’s
letter:

You must not think, Mary Dane, that the
Roses are a gift made ‘‘in anticipation of death.”
True, the family will gather in September to cele-
brate my 105th birthday, but I have no intention
of going either to heaven or hell at any time in
the near future.

I am giving the Roses to you because you have
the complexion for them, and I am giving them
now, while you are young enough to get some
good out of them. I was twenty-five years old
when they came to me, and they changed my life.
They will do as much for you, if you let them.

If you let them

Soon after dusk had deepened into dark,
sleep came to Mary Dane. In her sleep she
dreamed, and the fantasies of the night
touched and shaped the waking dreams closest
to her heart. One vision she saw whole: a
children’s museum in the park, its gardens and
buildings stretching north from the reservoir;
and children—curious, exploratory, absorbed.

i this dream of a dream, a young man
walked toward her. His body was angular, the
planes of his face sharply defined. His hair
was carefully smoothed, except for a maverick
lock that sprang upright from his scalp to
lead an independent life of its own. Mary
Dane’s heart thudded, and she was awake.

That tuft of hair, burning red in the mid-
morning sunlight that flooded the museum’s
cafeteria, signaled to Mary Dane that Dr.
Bill Bullard, curator of Peloponnesian Culture,
was about to have his coffee break. Mary had
slipped away from Ancient Euphrates Civiliza-
tions early enough to get to the cafeteria ahead
of him, and she was able to observe Dr. Bul-
lard as he selected a cruller and coffee.

Dr. Bullard was, she could tell, in an intro-
spective mood. This meant, if the evidence of
countless observations meant anything, that
he would find an empty table, silently ingest
his cruller and coffee, and ponder the ques-
tions that burdened him. These moods were
not frequent. Instead of sitting alone, Dr.
Bullard usually sought the company of this or
that group of his fellow employees and en-
gaged with them in museum shop talk and
gossip. Mary Dane was often a member of
one group or another favored by Dr. Bullard;
a circumstance, had he known it, that was
traceable to the care with which she placed
herself with people whose company Dr. Bul-
lard enjoyed.

Her strategy, Mary Dane reflected, had
put them on the easy and familiar terms of
people who often meet, but without intent or
purpose. Mary Dane thought fleetingly of this
stalemate in her relations with Dr. Bullard.
Twenty-four hours earlier she would have
thought the problem through. exploring pos-
sibilities and probabilities, and devising in-
genious remedies which she would not have
had the courage to apply. But the Mary Dane
of yesterday, thoughtful and timid, had dis-
appeared. In her place was a girl invested in
the radiance of a quarter of a million dollars in
pearls massed at her throat; a girl who tingled
with expectancy, who felt alive to the soles
of her feet, and who was already halfway to
the table where Bill Bullard was settling him-
self with his cruller, his coffee and his thoughts.
A dozen steps more, and she slipped into the
chair across from him.

“Bill!’’ Mary Dane’s voice was charged
with excitement. “Bill, you’ve got to help me!”

The cry for help is woman’s oldest gambit,
and one of the most effective yet devised for
setting in motion that infinitely variable ritual
by which man is brought to the altar. The
gambit was not unfamiliar to the young
curator, for Bill, like most marriageable men,
had been the target of more than one prac-
ticed huntress. Bill Bullard did not recognize,
however, that he was hearing once again the
old, the reliable, the tried and the true; for it
was being employed by one who had long
established herself as a nonpredator.

““What’s the trouble?’ Dr. Bullard glanced
at Mary Dane. He saw, with surprise, that the
Mary Dane who sat across from him was not
the quiet, rather colorless girl who had become
a familiar figure in the museum’s routine
activities. What was different? She’s charged up
about something. He lowered his gaze, but

felt impelled to look at her again. She’s sort
of surrounded by light... . And he was feeling,
unaccountably, a little silly.

“It’s the children’s museum, Bill. ’'ve got a
plan.” She was staring at him intently, and as
he returned her gaze he found himself recall-
ing the day when, as a little boy, he had come
upon a fence crowned by morning glories,
and had stood for a long while, absorbed in
their heavenly blue. Morning glories. I'll be
darned! He felt an unreasoning pique and,
with equal illogic, a sharp sense of loss.

“Children’s museum?” Bill was pouring
more sugar into his coffee than usual. ‘‘The
one in Brooklyn? What about it?”

“No, Bill! They’ve got one in Brooklyn. I’m
talking about one right here in Central Park.
There are swarms of kids west of the park,
and in Harlem, and on the upper East Side.
Thousands and thousands of kids! We need a
children’s museum in the park, up at the north
end where the kids are.”

Dr. Bill Bullard, museum curator, was in-
terested. He agreed that a children’s museum
in that crowded area would be a civic asset.
“When did you get this idea?”’. .. . And when,
he added silently and unbidden, when did
you But he stopped short of clothing the
thought with words.

“Years ago, Bill. It was right after I started
working for the museum. I took a walk along
some of the side streets. Bill, you never in
your life saw so many children!”

In the next ten minutes Dr. Bullard learned
more about Mary Dane than he had dis-
covered in the six years he had spent at the
museum. There was no mistaking either her
dedication or her solid understanding of her
subject. The curator listened with deep interest
and a sense of revelation to her account of
trips she had made to Hartford and Brooklyn
to study the children’s museums in those
communities; of her correspondence with ad-
ministrators of children’s museums around the
world; of the graduate work she had done in
museum administration; of her collection of
books, pamphlets, photographs, sketches and
other materials that dealt with the planning,
organization, exhibit arrangement and opera-
tion of children’s museums. And as Dr. Bul-
lard, the curator, listened with professional
interest, young Bill Bullard noted the subtle
changes of expression that animated her face,
the delicate curve of her cheek, the exquisite
reflection of color cast by the pearls against
her skin.

“And just think, Bill!’ The morning glories
had turned to blue fire. “‘Here I’ve been all
these years, just studying about it, and dream-
ing about it, and not doing one darned thing
to make it happen!”

“It’s not an easy thing to make happen.”
In an effort to escape the sensations that sti-red
him, Dr. Bullard took refuge in sweeping and
somewhat pontifical observations. “After all,
Mary Dane, there’s the enormous inertia of a
big town to contend with. The bigger the city,
the more crippling the inertia. In a town this
size it’s almost impossible to get anybody to
listen, much less do anything.’ He forced him-
self to stop by clamping his teeth together.
She will think I'm an ass. Bill was skidding
toward the quicksands of caring what she
thought. In an instinctive braking action, he
gestured toward the empty cups. “I'll get us
some more coffee.”

As Bill moved toward the counter, Mary
Dane caressed the Roses with her fingertips.
“They changed my life.’ Mary Dane re-
strained an almost irrepressible urge to spring
from her chair and dance in an abandon of
joy. She looked at her coworkers, clustered
at tables about the room. What on earth would
they think if I did? \t would certainly give
them something new to talk about: ‘“‘Did you
see Mary Dane? In the cafeteria, drunk as an
owl!”

At the counter, Bill Bullard was giving the
cashier fourteen cents. Mary Dane’s thoughts
darted off at a tangent. J must remember to
take the Roses to Tiffany's. Into her mind had
popped a passage *from her great-grand-
mother’s letter.

The Roses need to be restrung about every five
years. This is important when pearls are worn
every day. Tiffany’s has been doing this work for

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me for three generations, and you can always de-
pend on the people at Tiffany’s to be discreet.
It’s about time to take them back again.

Bill Bullard set the cups of fresh coffee on
the table, and placed himself once again
across from Mary Dane.

“What’s this plan of yours?”

Mary Dane told him. “I’ve got six thousand
dollars in the bank, Bill. It’s taken me nine
years to save it. I’m going to take five thousand
dollars of that money and use it to start “The
Fund for a Children’s Museum in Central
Park,’ But’—and she leaned toward him—
“that five thousand dollars won’t be worth
five cents—I mean the fund could sit there
and grow moss, and we’d never see the mu-
seum built—unless we used that money as
bait. We have to use it as bait, not just to
attract more money but as bait to get the pub-
lic all stirred up about it.” We. With a two-
letter word Mary Dane had drawn Bill into
partnership.

“You see, Bill, if we can get the right kind
of publicity—all about the hardworking em-
ployee who saved, and saved, and saved for
years, and now is putting most of her savings
into a fund to build a museum for the kids of
Manhattan—if we play it for all it’s worth—we
can whip up a human-interest campaign that
will raise all the money we need, and shake
them off their chairs at City Hall too.”

Bill nodded, and she could see the quick
understanding in his eyes. She unfolded her
plan further. Bill, she pointed out, with his
family and professional connections, could
open the right doors. “Suppose you were a
Rockefeller, or a Guggenheim, or a Vander-
bilt—or a Bullard,’ and she smiled at him,
“and a poor, hardworking girl—that’s me—
called to see you and asked you to donate some
money for a children’s museum, and if you
knew that the poor, hardworking girl had
given five thousand dollars of her own
money—could you say ‘No’? No,’ she an-
swered her own question, “you could not say
‘No.’ The thing’s a natural, Bill.”

““Mary Dane.” Bill paused, and seemed to
have trouble finding the words he wanted to
use. ‘Mary Dane, it’s a great idea . . . and it
could work—at least, I think it could—and I’m
willing to help. But are you sure you ought to
do it? Don’t misunderstand me.” He reached
across and gripped his hand around hers. “I
think you’re wonderful to want to do it. But
is it... well, sensible? You’d be giving away
about eighty-five percent of everything
you’ve got.”

“Not really!’ There was gaiety in her smile.
“Just eighty-five percent of my money. I
have some other worldly goods, you know.
I’ve got a bed, and an easy chair, and clothes,
and, of course, my crown jewels!’ She laughed
as she touched the pearls. Her smile faded, and
she spoke seriously. “Anyway, Bill, what good
is the money where it is now? Oh, I know it’s
being invested in municipal bonds, or public
utilities, or some other worthy enterprise; but
it’s my money, and isn’t it better to use it for
something that means a lot to me?” They were
silent, and then she spoke slowly. “‘It’s like all
this studying I’ve been doing. I’ve been collect-
ing information, bit by bit, and storing it
away, just the way I’ve been saving money. I'll
bet I know more about children’s museums
than almost anybody in the country. And
what have I been doing with what I’ve learned?
Nothing. Not one thing! Shouldn’t I use
what I know?” She was smiling again. “It’s
the thing to do, Bill, I'm positive. I’m sure
of it.”

“If you are sure, Mary Dane, all right.”

Bill Bullard, in a significant upgrading of
cafeteria etiquette, moved around the table
to hold Mary Dane’s chair, and through his
action effectively informed three women and
one sensitive young man, fellow employees
all, that something interesting was afoot. At
the elevator the two parted, Bill to return to
Peloponnesian Culture, Mary to the Ancient
Euphrates; but the parting did not occur be-
fore Bill had arranged to call for Mary Dane
at seven o’clock that evening. There was, they
agreed, much to talk about. Both could see
quite plainly that a general plan should be
developed before any move was made. Too
much time had already been lost—another
point on which both concurred. Wouldn’t it
be sensible to get started right away? Neither

Mary Dane nor Bill attempted to oppose a
conclusion based so patently on logic.

As Mary Dane floated through stardust,
thirty minutes late from her coffee break, the
clock in the hall registered 10:45 a.M., thus
recording a time less than twenty-four hours
since Mary Dane had become owner of the
Roses; and already the tempo and rhythm of
her life had changed. But what about Mary
Dane? Were changes to be found in the girl
herself? More important, did she have, either
inborn or newly acquired, the quality which
some call stamina, others think of as courage,
but which, in final analysis, is a kind of tough-
mindedness? Whatever its name, it was a qual-
ity she soon would need.

Swept forward by the momentum of events,
Mary Dane gave little thought to demands
that the future might impose. There was noth-
ing, in these busy weeks, to forewarn her. Bill,
as a key force in the campaign, more than
fulfilled her hopes and expectations. She had
known that Bill, as a member of the old and
well-to-do Bullard family, would be an ally of
first importance; but not until Mary Dane
was given an inside view of money and power
in action did she have any notion of how vast
was the Bullard wealth, how far-ranging and
potent the family’s influence.

Bill’s first move was to recruit Ivor Rod-
man. Ivor Rodman’s name meant nothing to
the policeman on the beat, to the clerk at the
counter, to the housewife at her chores. Only
at top corporate levels did the name have
meaning, and the meaning there was such that
Ivor Rodman turned away many more clients
than he agreed to serve. Bill telephoned
Rodman’s daughter, Helen, wangled an invi-
tation to dinner, and in an after-dinner check-
ers game with Helen’s father recounted the
story of Mary Dane, the dream museum, the
$5000, and what Mary proposed to do.

“My word!” Rodman’s deep chuckle
echoed richly under his vest, and his well-
padded midsection undulated gently. “The

SUMMER ‘ be
COVER-UPS

Vogue Designs and Journal Patterns shown on pages 64 and 65.

yne, 196

LADIES’ HOME JOUF i fH

‘et ay uy)

girl’s either crazy or a genius, and dam}y ps8
if you can tell the difference these days!§ feo!
moved a man on the checkerboard, fojg')"
Bill’s man to jump. ““Who’s going to
the campaign?” Almost as an afterthouglfiy: 2
captured three of Bill’s men and removed thy! !*™
from play. ppsupeT
“T thought you might give me some ahi’. i
on that.’’ Bill advanced a man to the fa

C y's 000

ges 00?

row, and Rodman crowned him. Bpsenss: |
nl red in 0
suppose,” Rodman rumbled, “‘yqpyic 0 ®

looking for somebody who'll do the jobgp:s*
nothing.’”’ He moved a man out of the patyias™
danger. 0h, Gre
“Well, that would be asking a lot.” Bill}ga ‘ls
vanced one of his kings. “A guy would Hs tl!
to be pretty public-spirited.”’ 3 rid! The
“Some are,” and the basso tones vibra
the crystal at Rodman’s elbow, ‘“‘and sq ‘Tdi
aren’t.” ie pluck
Rodman won the game by capturing } ‘sil!
last of Bill’s kings. But Bill had captufpiitec!
Rodman. the peat
At two o’clock on the following Sunday, jbo!
took Mary Dane to the Rodman apartmipier iis’
They found the dwelling surrounded by ti}ho 0!
and wreathed in a patch of cloud that driffi]—
toward the river. Fifty-two stories bel«pi tht ‘
traffic muttered faintly. daken me!
Mary Dane and Rodman took to each ot preset.
immediately and without reserve. With {ora \0
sure touch of a Barnum or a Houdini, Ribrme
man arranged the show for maximum effepit 1
thoroughly coached Mary in her role, and fisi-"!
a pace for the campaign that demanded)
Mary Dane all the mental and physical agi!
at her command. The three days she took fr¢
the campaign to fly home for Grannie W
ship’s birthday came as a welcome breath)
During her first two days at home, a privé
talk with Grannie Winship was impossib
but the glittering silence that stretched t il
tween the young woman and the old added |
own touch of spice to the festivities. On t} sen

WULTHI

1 “Wel

i) Man
Boobs
pai
th R
i ew
‘mouse

5578 :
Vogue Design No. 5578. One-piece dress and jacket; 10-18 (31-38); $1.50, in Can- ea
ada $1.65. Version shown requires 17% yards of 45” fabric without nap for dress and be
1% yards of 54” fabric without nap for jacket, size 14. Da

Vogue Design No. 5575. One-piece dress, stole and petticoat; 10-18 (31-38); $2.00, | ly,
in Canada $2.20. Version shown requires 814 yards of 45” fabric without nap for ig

dress and scarf, 2! yards of ostrich-feather trimming, size 14. {sil
The dresses shown with Journal sweater patterns Nos. 2965, 2966 and 2967 are ih
Vogue Design Nos. 9988, 5544 and 5360 respectively. Man
|
Buy Vogue Designs at the store which sells them in your city. Or order by mail, en- (*
closing check or money order *, from Vogue Pattern Service, P.O. Box 630, Altoona, lye
Pa.; or in Canada from P.O. Box 4042, Terminal A, Toronto 1, Ont. (*Calif. and Pa. A
residents please add sales tax.) These patterns will be sent third-class mail. If you ||y,
desire shipment first-class mail, please include 10c additional for each pattern ji
ordered. A Mo
m
Journal Pattern No. 2965. White hand-knit cardigan; 25c. he
Journal Pattern No. 2966. Sleeveless sweater; 25c. m
Journal Pattern No. 2967. Fluffy angora bolero to knit; 25c. by
m
Order Journal Patterns from: Reference Library, Ladies’ Home Journal, 0
Independence Square, Philadelphia 5, Pa.* 0)

*Pennsylvania residents please add 4% state sales tax.

JNE, 1962
OUR

iird day they sat together in Grannie Win-
1ip’s sitting room.

The old lady sat in a rocker, and she moved
owly back and forth as she listened to Mary
vane’s account of what had been happening
Gf 8° the gift of the Roses. Mary Dane de-

eribed her meetings with New York’s mayor,
1e superintendent of schools, the parks com-
~ “dhissioner, the borough president; her appear-

‘‘lifaces on TV; her speeches at fund-raising
\incheons; the feature stories that had ap-
eared in newspapers and magazines; the
al otices on subway-car cards—all the endless
zzle-dazzle of an Ivor Rodman campaign.
“tt nd at its hub, Mary Dane.
| “Oh, Grannie!”” Mary Dane hugged her
\"Billnees. “Iv s absolutely the most wonderful, the
“host exciting, the most thrilling thing in the

iPorld! The children will get their museum.
Fou’ll see!”

‘XW “Tell me more about that young man.” A

mile plucked at Grannie Winship’s lips.

Nunng! **Bill?”? Mary was silent for a few moments,

‘pind the color in her cheeks matched the color
if the pearls. “Bill. Well, Grannie, how can you
unday11 about a man? He’s . . . well, he’s taken me

“saiminder his wing, you might say. And we spend
‘yf lot of time together. If it hadn’t been for

Dat dni ill ——’’ Mary Dane collected her thoughts,
8 bal d the old lady continued rocking. ‘‘He’s

b ken me to his aunt’s house twice. His parents
cach off ire dead. His Aunt Paul. That’s a funny name
With Pr a woman, isn’t it?”” Mary Dane caught
in, Mrannie Winship’s glance. ““And when he
imelPut me on the plane’’—she spoke with a
—‘‘he kissed me!”

and dy nh
% day
tt,

DS to

168 Vi

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On Send contributions to MS c/o Postmaster

| “Well, thank goodness!

And in the room
Srannie Winship’s laughter sounded delicate
nd high, like the ringing of a glass bell.
Mary Dane moved her head, as if to avoid
cobweb. “Of course Bill doesn’t know what
In awful fraud I am. I mean, he doesn’t know
he Roses are real. Like everybody else in
ew York, Bill thinks I’m a poor little church
nouse with a heart as big as all outdoors.
Little Miss Bigheart—that’s me!”
“Does it worry you?” The rocking chair
as still.
““Maybe. I haven’t had time to think about
, if you want to know the truth.”” Mary Dane
stared into the fire that burned low in the
trate. ““But I can tell you one thing, Grannie.
And this I’m sure of. If I had it to do all over
gain, I’d do exactly what I’ve done!”
Laughter was heard agajn.in the room, and
‘he motion of the chair resumed. ‘You're my
rue child, Mary Dane. Do what you have to
Mo, and let the devil take the hindmost!”
iF ees fine advice for a girl to get from her
zrannie!” Mary Dane’s mood lightened.
“I’m only preaching what I practiced.”’ The
old woman smiled into the flames. “If I
adn’t,”’ and her voice was casual, “there’d be
o Roses for you. There would be no Mary
Dane.”
| YOu mean it, don’t you, Grannie?”” Mary
““@Dane looked curiously at the delicate old
0 Pigure, elegantly gowned in a dress of sprigged
silk. “You know,” and her voice was wonder-
ng, “I’ve been taking the Roses for granted,
as if .... well, as if you’d picked them off the
amily tree. But our family has never been
that rich! How did you get the Roses?”
There was a long silence in the room, and it
Settled around them like a comfortable cloak.
2 And then Mrs. Winship was talking, her tones
yo elear and fragile. ““This was frontier country
on $n 1881. Marriageable girls were scarce, and
your great-grandfather thought he was
ighty lucky to win the pretty widow from
back East. During the forty years we were
arried, I sometimes spoke of my first hus-
band, Elmer, andyour great-grandfather ap-
proved, because he thought it showed a
proper respect for the dead. He never found
out that there had been no Elmer.”

Cane
sand

|
i
{

No Elmer? Mary Dane had not spoken
aloud. The words were an echo in her mind.

“From the time I was fifteen years old,
Mary Dane, until two weeks beyond my
twenty-fifth birthday, people knew me as
Bernadine Dunston.”

Mary Dane felt giddy. Bernadine Dunston?
She felt her jaw loosen. Mary Dane was
showing the classic symptoms of stupefaction.

““Grannie?”’ Her voice faltered. “Bernadine
Dunston?”

“Yes, Mary Dane. I was one of the Celestial
Three. The Divine Sarah, the Heavenly Elea-
nora, the Angelic Bernadine.’ The old lady
laughed, and her laughter was a shower of
splintered glass. ‘““The Celestial Three! How
we hated each other!’ She rocked more
vigorously. “‘Oh, I fooled *°em! They thought I
was dead.”

Mary Dane’s mouth felt dry.

“In the ten years I was Bernadine Dun-
ston I acquired a good deal of money, and I
put it away. Hid it, you know. I knew the day
would come when I would want to get away.”
She nodded at her great-granddaughter. “I
had jewels enough for a queen. And then Dom
Jaime gave me the Roses. It was time for
Bernadine to die.”

“According to the history books, she was
kidnaped and killed.”” Mary Dane gave a help-
less laugh. ““By the Bulgarians, for heaven’s
sake!”

““My dear, Candide gave me the idea. I was
determined that when Bernadine Dunston
died. it should be nothing less impressive than
kidnap and murder by the Bulgars.”’ Grannie
Winship nodded to herself with satisfaction.
“T was not without imagination, but Voltaire
did help.”

The old lady glanced sharply at Mary Dane.
“Since I’ve told you this much, I may as well
tell you the rest.’’ She paused, as if debating
the wisdom of saying more; but the floodgates
of memory had been opened.

Mary Dane was spellbound. Bernhardt,
Duse, Dunston—names to conjure with. New
York, London, Paris, Rome. Vienna. Constan-
tinople. Dukes and grand dukes, princes,
grandees. A descendant of the Pharaohs.

The spell was broken. Mary Dane took a
deep breath. She knew with an intense and
blinding conviction that she was listening to
fantasy. Why, the poor old girl’s making it all
up. And there was a kind of pity in her mind.

The old voice went on, but Mary Dane no
longer heard the words. Poor old girl. Mad as
a hatter / {nan instinctive gesture, Mary Dane
touched the pearls at her throat. The Roses.
Mary Dane closed her eyes, but she knew that
a chasm yawned at her feet. The Roses are fan-
tasy too. “Everyone takes it for granted that
they are beads.’ Beads are what they are.

The chasm was real enough. It stretched
before her, and around her, and the sides
dropped straight to the abyss. Once over the
edge, and you were gone. But why step over
the edge ? She didn’t know where the question
came from, but it steadied her. Another ques-
tion came. So what if the Roses are beads ? And
then she asked a question of herself: Would
you go back to where you were ? She knew she
would not. She opened her eyes, and the
chasm was gone.

Grannie Winship had stopped her narra-
tive, and was gazing with concern at Mary
Dane. “I haven’t dismayed you, have 1,
child?”

“Tt’s just that ’m overwhelmed!” And then
she laughed, and in her laughter the glass bell
found an echo. “But Grannie, can you imagine
what the church circle would have to say
about Bernadine Dunston!”

Grannie Winship’s eyes gleamed with merri-
ment. “Don’t think I haven’t amused myself
with that thought many a time!” Her tone be-
came serious. “But no one must know, Mary
Dane. Reporters would descend on us and
nothing would be private anymore. Someone
would be sure to find out about the Roses, and
then they’d have to go into a vault. And you’ve
learned how wonderful it is to wear them.”

Tears stung the girl’s eyes. She lifted her
great-grandmother’s hand and kissed the
delicate, crepey skin. “I don’t know that I'll
ever be able to tell you how much the Roses
mean to me.”’ She was silent a moment. “How
much they will always mean.”

There was one thing still to be done, she
thought, and she did it the next day. She and
Bill were in the little room the museum had
assigned to her. “I have,”’ she said, “‘a con-
fession to make.”

He thought she had never looked lovelier.

Mary Dane told him the story of the Roses.
All of it. As she finished describing the scene
with Grannie Winship, Bill took her hand in
his. She looked at him swiftly, and he saw that
her eyes sparkled not with tears, but with
mirth.

“Dear Bill!” she patted his hand. “Don’t
feel sorry for me!’’ She gestured toward the
pearls. “‘Look at them. They are lovely, aren’t

they?’’ He nodded, and she went on. “And
they did shake me loose from dead center,
didn’t they?” Again he nodded. “And we’re
going to get that museum for the kids, aren’t
we?”

“Mary Dane,” said Bill,
going to get married?”

The telephone rang, and Mary answered.
When she replaced the receiver, she looked
thoughtfully at Bill. “I may as well tell you,”
she said. “That was Tiffany’s. Grannie wrote
them and asked them to remind me to bring
in the pearls. The man says they’ve checked
their records, and it’s been six years since
they’ve restrung the Roses.” END

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100

Stevens began planning for

when she was a high-school

freshman. She won a scholarship and
got a job at the University of Colorado in ES
Boulder, thus paying most of her own
expenses. She confidently looks fo?

ward to both a career and marriage.

uring his freshman year.

Cathy Stevens is a sophomore at

School this month, faces Academy High School. Her chief

t and expensive trek toa law concern is getting “halfway decent

x or seven years of college grades.” If she attends college, she can
pects to earn a part of his

expect costs to be higher than for her
sister or brother—and _ the compe-

tition for jobs will be keener.

ans to buckle down to

For Mike Stevens, college is remote
but nonetheless certain from his fa-
ther’s point of view. At three, he is
about ready to buckle down to nursery

school, but his parents aren’t forget-
ting that when he is ready for college,
costs will have at least doubled.

HERE GOMES
GULLEGE-
WHO LL

PAY THE BILLS ¢

By GLENN WHITE
PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOSEPH DI PIETRO

This month a mature eighteen-year-old,
Bill Stevens, will be graduated from Acad-
emy High School, a public school on the
Air Force Academy's 17,500-acre grounds
in Colorado. Bill Stevens is headed for
college and both he and his parents,
Major and Mrs. Randolph Stevens, take
college seriously. Last fall, the big senior
year, Bill gave up an almost certain place
on the Academy High School football
team in order to bring up his grades and
graduate in the upper half of his class.

Bill will enter the University of Colorado
at Boulder in September. He will take pre-
law courses and get set for the long haul
of six or seven years to a law degree. He
knows it won’t be easy and his parents
know it won't be cheap. His sister Sara, a
piquant beauty and a scholarship stu-
dent, isa sophomore at the university; his
sister Cathy, a sweet sixteen, is a sopho-
more at Academy High and next year she
will begin planning for college too.

Major and Mrs. Stevens want to give
all their children the opportunity to go to
college. Where there is a will, they be-
lieve, there is a way.

“A girl should have enough education
to enable her to take care of herself,”’
Mary Stevens said, ‘‘ifshewantstoorneeds
to. A boy almost has to have some train-

101

eet
hel’

When the family gathers around Major and Mrs.
Randolph Stevens, chances are the talk will be
about college—ways and means. Their goal: col-
lege for all, with the emphasis on self-reliance.

ing beyond high school if he is to progress
in any occupation. For most, this means
college. Paying for it is the problem.”
For Mary Stevens and her husband—
she calls him ‘‘Jack,’’ his Air Force col-
leagues call him ‘‘Steve’’—the problem
has some unusual complications. They
have five children—Mike, Cathy, Bill, Sara
and Susan—ranging in age from three
years to twenty-five. (Their oldest daugh-
ter, Susan, lives in Sacramento and has
four children of her own.) Major Stevens,
an Air Force Reserve officer, must retire in
1967, when he will have had twenty years
of active duty. He will then be only fifty
years old and will receive a pension equal
to one half his base pay. Although he is
glad to have this security, retirement does
not seem so alluring to him as it once did.
When the Stevenses came to the Air
Force Academy in 1958 (after a tour of
duty in the Philippines), Mary Stevens
planned to take a job, mostly to help build
a cash reserve for their children’s college
expenses. How else would they ever be
able to pay for their education? Her hus-
band’s pay as a captain then was $525
monthly. Sara, Bill and Cathy were teen-
agers—they certainly did not need her
attention during the day. She couldn't
think of a single reason why she shouldn’t

Oe... rrr

102

go to work in an attempt to fatten the family
bank account.

A reason occurred to her a little more than
seven months later. Michael Kent Stevens was
born in January, 1959. He changed his moth-
er’s plans to work and altered the family’s
long-range financial structure completely.
Mike’s first cost was slight—only $5.50, the
price of Mary’s food during her five-day hos-
pital stay. But it was clear she would not be
earning any extra money for the family in the
near future—‘‘and for thirteen years I'd have
to go to Halloween parties and PTA meetings
all over again!”

She feels the delights of having Mike more
than compensate, of course. With new zest
she is already planning his college education.
At forty-five Mary Stevens, mother of five
children, grandmother of four, wears a size-
nine dress and looks and acts almost as young
as her daughters. She acquired another
grandson six months after Mike was born,
and she took Mike with her when she went to
Sacramento to assist her daughter. (“Maybe
you think that wasn’t a houseful of babies!”’)

Major Stevens doesn’t look, act or feel like
a man approaching retirement either. After a
recent trip to Sacramento, Mike started call-
ing him “grandpa,” as the grandchildren had
done. Major Stevens let this pass a few times,
then he spoke a little sharply to Mike. “Son,”
he said, ‘I’m not your grandpa!”

Mike seemed about to cry and looked at
his mother.

“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m not
your grandma!”

Fortunately, Major Stevens’s mother, from
Red Oak, Iowa, was visiting them at the
time. Mike turned to her. ““Will you be my
grandma?” he implored.

Sara Stevens planned to help herself to a
college education from the moment she en-
tered Academy High School. So far her plans
have worked well. “I decided when I was a
freshman in high school that I would win a
scholarship to college,’ she said, ‘‘and I did.
You don’t have to be any great brain to win a
scholarship.”’ She maintained a B-plus aver-
age through high school and was awarded a
tuition scholarship—$232.00 per year for resi-
dents of Colorado. The scholarship will pay
her full tuition for four years if she maintains
a B average.

Realistically, she never seriously considered
going elsewhere than the University of Col-
orado at Boulder. She could have commuted
to Colorado College in Colorado Springs, a
private college about ten miles from her home
onthe Air Force Academy grounds, but tuition
alone there costs more than room, board and
tuition at the university. Sara is certain the
university is the biggest educational bargain
available to her. She didn’t even give a thought
to leaving Colorado, a state she loves. Her
home is there, the climate and scenery suit
her—and so does Air Force Cadet John Pat-
ton. As she pointed out, many girls go to col-
lege in Colorado with only one of those at-
tractions in mind.

else acquired free tuition under her own
power, Sara applied to the university employ-
ment service and got a job working twenty
hours a week as a switchboard operator. For
this she receives room and board at Farrand
Hall, which otherwise would cost her parents
$790 a year. In addition, she earns $250 to $300
during summer vacations as a paid nurse’s
aide at a Colorado Springs hospital and this
summer, she hopes, as a children’s camp coun-
selor and pool lifeguard, for which Red Cross
training has qualified her.

Thus Sara earns the major portion of all her
college expenses. Her parents contribute $20
monthly, plus “‘incidentals”’ and all her clothes,
two thirds of which her mother makes. Mary
Stevens has always made most of her own and
her daughters’ dresses and skirts. One way
Sara knows she has grown up is that she is no
longer ashamed to say, when someone asks her
where she got that dress, ‘‘My mother madeit.”’
She now says it atevery opportunity and witha
great deal of pride—as well she might. She has
an expert private dressmaker and many
dresses her classmates envy. She even gets a
little exasperated with Cathy, who occasion-
ally wants to buy “‘a dress with a high-class
label.” ““Why don’t you just buy some labels

and sew them on the dresses mother makes for
you?” she asked her.

It is unusual for a girl to work and earn as
large a share of college expenses her first year
as Sara did. In her father’s opinion, it is not
to be recommended. He thinks her grades
slumped because she tried to do too much,
and she had some illnesses that might have
been avoided by a little more sleep. “It’s a mis-
take we won’t make again,” her father said.
‘‘We won’t let the others work their first year
in college if we can avoid it. A student should
have a clear shot at studies, especially when
things are new and difficult.”

Major Stevens is also of the opinion that
boys are less expensive to raise than girls, but
it looks now as if Bill’s college education will
cost the family much more than Sara’s. Bill
does not have a scholarship and it will be even
more necessary for him to concentrate on
studies, as his high-school grades were not so
high as Sara’s. He has talked about taking a
year off to earn some money and “to grow
up,” but Sara doesn’t think he should. “He
certainly has more ability than most freshmen,
as far as thinking is concerned,” is her sisterly
evaluation.

Bill will work to contribute to his support
after his first year and during summer months.
He has saved nearly $700 from summer jobs—
as a ranch hand and by caddying and doing
maintenance work on the Air Force Academy
golf course. Sometimes he has substituted for
Cathy on a baby-sitting job—an occupation
that provides her with all the extra money she
needs as a high-school student. If he needs it,
he will probably be able to get a grant or loan
for a part of his college expenses from the
Education Fund of the Air Force Aid Society,
or from other college loan funds.

“IT believe in borrowing, if necessary, for
college expenses,” Major Stevens said. “‘I
don’t know what people have against it, but it
is a fact that there is at present no run on col-
lege loan funds. Some say it is bad to be grad-
uated from college in debt. Well, it makes
more sense than being in debt for a new car.”
He and Mary were both in debt for college
when he got his bachelor’s degree, but the
total was only $800. They were married for
four years before they owned a secondhand
car. They have two now because they need
them—a 1958 Plymouth station wagon and a
1953 Ford.

When Sara was uncertain how she would
fare financially her freshman year, she applied
for a loan from the Air Force Aid Society. As
with many college loan funds, the application
was processed through the College Scholar-
ship Service, an activity of the College En-
trance Examination Board (Box 176, Prince-
ton, New Jersey). The form provided by this
Service requires a complete and detailed sum-

mary of a family’s total income and resources,
the names and ages of all children and their
assets, the year and make of family automo-
biles, indebtedness, savings accounts and other
financial details, all of which must be itemized
and explained. The College Scholarship Ser-
vice, acting as a clearinghouse, then forwards
the completed form, as directed, to a particu-
lar loan fund. On the basis of this informa-
tion, the directors of the fund determine how
much money, if any, will be loaned or granted
to the applicant. Unless real need is shown,
none will be granted.

IN oieatione for loans under the National
Defense Education Act are made through the
directors of student aid of the colleges which
accept it, and a similar rigid evaluation is made
of the student’s need for money. These spe-
cial loans are repayable at low rates of inter-
est, beginning usually after the student has
been graduated from college. (Under the pro-
visions of the National Defense Education
Act, up to 50 percent of the loan is forgiven if
the student becomes a teacher.) There are, of
course, many commercial sources from which
a family can borrow money, at regular interest
rates, for college expenses merely by showing
ability to repay on a prescribed schedule. This
amounts to “installment buying” of a college
education and can be started in advance or
extended over a period longer than four years.

Major Stevens noted that Bill must also
consider his obligations for military service,
as must every physically able youth who is sub-
ject to a draft call. Deferments are usually
given to college students, but they are just
that—deferments. If a student has not other-
wise planned for military service, he may be
drafted after he has completed college. In
some colleges there are both Army and Navy
Officers’ Training Programs which will help
finance a college education for a limited num-
ber of specially qualified young men. Bill,
brought up as an Air Force “brat,” thinks he
would prefer the Navy and plans to enroll in the
Naval R.O.T.C. at the University of Colorado,
if he qualifies and is selected.

Bill has not tried for an appointment to the
Air Force Academy, although on the surface
it would appear that an appointment to any of
the national military academies would be the
“cheapest way to go to college.” Air Force
cadets not only study tuition-free, but are fed,
clothed and paid by the United States Gov-
ernment. Both the admission standards and
the training are rigorous, and Bill is not cer-
tain that he wants a solely military career.
“That is the only reason for any boy to seek
an appointment to the academy,” Major
Stevens said. ‘“‘Every year we have boys wash-
ing out who say, ‘I didn’t want to come here
in the first place, but my parents thought it

NK hiker

“What, if anything, does Plato have to say about corner-
cutting, budget-stretching, penny-pinching, et cetera?”

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

would be a cheap way for me to get a college
education.’ Those parents couldn’t be more
mistaken.”

Most parents and many prospective can-
didates are surprised to learn that the Ai
Force Academy does not have an airstrip or
airplanes. Pilot training for cadets does not
begin until after graduation, and in the future
nearly half of the graduates will not become
fliers but aeronautical engineers and space
scientists. Bill thinks a law degree may possi
bly help him to qualify for a reserve commi
sion in the Navy and equip him for a civilian
career more to his liking.

Cathy will not be ready for college unti
the September following Sara’s graduation. If
she attends college for four years and Bill con
tinues with law, Major and Mrs. Stevens face
at least six more years of having two childre
in college at the same time. They will the
have an interim of several years before Mike is
old enough, sometime around 1976—eigh
years after his father’s “‘retirement.”

The monetary system of military life is en:
tirely different from that of civilians. There is
no secret about anyone’s salary—his rank dis:
closes it. It is a fixed income with no ups o
downs. There is hardly any pressure to “keep
up with the Joneses,’ for even if the Joneses
have additional income they hold their stan
dard of living to that which is common for their
rank. The salary, housing and subsistence al
lowances of a military man add up to consid-
erably more purchasing power than an equal
amount of income for a civilian. (These ad-
vantages have little meaning when the military
man must be separated from his family or risk
his life in the performance of his duties, as is
frequently the case.)

ee August Major Stevens underwent an
operation on his back to correct some mis-
placed cartilage in his spinal column. He esti-
mates that similar surgery and hospitalization:
would cost a civilian at least $2000, but the
Air Force supplies, without charge, all neces-
sary medical care for him and most of it for
the rest of his family.

“That’s a tremendous help,” Mary Stevens
noted. ‘“We have had quite a lot of hospital-
ization, and we have to pay only the cost of
meals—$1.10 a day.”

Four years ago, Major Stevens’s mother }
bought them a fifteen-foot vacation trailer— }
“No Rancho Yetto’’—which sleeps five. It was
secondhand but in almost new condition, and }
it cost $850. The Stevenses figure it has saved
them that much on vacation bills—and it is
still worth $500 or more. Most of their vaca-
tions and many weekends in nearby moun-
tains cost them no more than a little extra
gasoline. ‘““We eat the same food we would eat
at home,”’ Mary said, “‘and I can be ready to
go in less than thirty minutes after a trip to
the commissary.”

“It’s a cheap way to have family vaca-
tions,” Major Stevens said. ““The money we }
save will pay a few school bills. I like trailer |
vacations and so far the family has gone along.
I used to say Mary enjoyed camping only if |
she could have a comfortable bed and hot and
cold running water, but now she’s getting
tougher and I’m getting softer.”

Not long ago, Mary Stevens took a family
vote on whether she should take a job. The
others unanimously and somewhat emotion-
ally decreed that she must stay at home with
Mike. Nevertheless, she is reasonably certain
that when Mike is old enough for nursery
school she will go to work, possibly at the
academy nursery school. Most of her income
she thinks could be diverted to college ex-
penses and thus solve all their problems while @
giving her a great feeling of accomplishment.

She herself is not a college graduate, hav-
ing eloped with Jack during her sophomore
year when she was nineteen. They intended to
keep their marriage secret until both had fin-
ished college, but the next year she found her-
self pregnant and had to give up college in
order to take care of their first daughter,
Susan. Jack continued and got his bachelor’s
degree from Iowa State in 1938. During the
five years after the war, when he was not on
active duty, he taught at a prep school for
West Point at Newburgh, New York, and also
completed requirements for a master’s degree

CONTINUED ON PAGE 104

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in educational counseling at Columbia Uni-
versity.

Susan did not attend college, but married
instead at the age of eighteen. Her parents
thus have no practical grounds for opposing
early marriage and they don’t. “A girl should
marry when she is in love and ready to
marry,” Mary Stevens said. “She may be
ready to assume the responsibilities of mar-
riage at eighteen, as Susan was, or she might
not be ready at twenty-five. Age has very little
to do with it.”

Sara is “‘pinned”’ (engaged to be engaged) to
Air Force Cadet John Patton, but even if they
decide to marry, they can’t until after he has
been graduated from the academy. They now
say they will wait until he has completed
flight training also—two years from now if all
goes well.

“For some reason, both high-school and
college boys around here hate cadets, or pre-
tend to,’ Sara reported. “‘They call them
‘zoomies,’ ‘flyboys’ and ‘space apes.’ I don’t
know why—maybe it’s because the uniform
attracts girls—but if a girl dates a cadet,
civilian boys tend to ignore her.”? She met
John Patton several years ago when she ac-
companied several other high-school girls to a
dancing class at the academy. Cadet under-
classmen were under orders to attend the class
and to dance with the girls. John asked her to
dance and they found they had so much in
common “knocking the whole horrible sys-
tem” that they soon became good friends.
Cathy is eager to offer her sympathy to some
cadet (her father occasionally brings one

SUNDAY IS A
DAY OF REST

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 37

morning until you’ve had a chance to finish
the comics.”

“I believe the question was about national
issues,” I said, ‘“‘and it’s my opinion that the
way people throw tin cans and candy wrap-
pers along our highways is a disgrace. Not to
mention our national parks. What’s the next
one?”

“Local and domestic issues,” Peg said.
“Well, you won’t find any cans or papers
thrown around this house—I’m not sure about
the local parks.”’

I picked up a candy wrapper from under the
couch and threw it in the fireplace.

Peg studied me thoughtfully. ““Did it occur
to you that there was anything sneaky about
setting a trap like that?”

“Look,” I said, “the last time you cleaned
the room you happened to miss a little scrap
of paper. Does that make us incompatible?
OK, then—why make an issue out of some-
thing that happened two or three months ago?
Let’s have the next question.”

Peg folded the newspaper and put it on the
table. “I’m glad you reminded me. Do you
remember the day last week when I was down-
town and you got supper for the kids?”

I couldn’t quite see what reminded her of
that, but I nodded anyhow. “‘I fixed them hot
dogs and wild rice and jelly doughnuts,” I
told her.

“That’s the time. I got the impression from
something Stevie said that they ate off the
kitchen table. I don’t mean ar the table, you
understand ——”

Well, when you have a bunch of enthusiastic
eaters like our kids, you have to wash the
tabletop anyway, so why wash a lot of dishes
too? “You know how kids are,” I told Peg,
“they get some crazy notions.”

“That’s what I understand.’ She appeared
satisfied to let the matter drop.

It seemed to me that I had scored pretty
well so far in the quiz, but I didn’t feel like
forcing my luck.

“You know,” I said, “I wonder if people
don’t tend to overdo this notion of compat-
ibility? This idea of a man and woman going

| down the road of life, each holding the han-

dle of the power mower.”
“That reminds me,” she said. ‘““Our mower
seemed to have an awful lot of vibration the

home) because she feels ‘‘a cadet really needs
itey

Sara says she and Bill understand each
other ‘‘as old friends, not as brother and sis-
ter—we can talk objectively.”” This is not the
way it was a few years ago when they squared
off with boxing gloves. (“Sara might still
win,” Bill says glumly. She is about half his
size now.) According to Sara, this acceptance
as a person is more difficult to achieve with
one’s parents: “‘It’s hard for them to give up
the parent-child image and respect a daugh-
ter’s opinions.”” More than anything else at
the moment, she wants respect for her opin-
ions. Cathy wants better grades and more
boys to ask her for dates. As Sara got both
when she was in high school, Cathy often turns
to her rather than to her mother for advice.
“Why shouldn’t she?’ Sara asked. “After all,
mother isn’t dating—I hope!”

“The trouble with teenagers,” her father
intoned, ‘‘is that they are too critical of their
parents’ opinions.” He has been a teacher or
adviser to young people all his professional
life, beginning in 1938 as a high-school math
teacher in Grant, Iowa. (At a salary of $110
monthly!) He taught in several other public
high schools and one private prep school; his
work with the Air Force has always been
largely educational. At the Air Force Acad-
emy his primary duties are those of a cadet
counselor (Assistant Director of the Candidate
Advisory Service). It is his job to help boys
stay in thésacademy, once they get in. “I
know youngsters,” Major Stevens said. “I’ve
counseled lots of them—and I try to be just as
objective in counseling my own children as I
am with others.”

last time I used it. I think that you ought to
look at it.”

“Let me put it in a different way,” I said.
“The foundation of a marriage is considera-
tion—a concern for the happiness of the other
person. Now, if getting a high score on this
quiz would make you happy, then that’s what
I want.”

“It isn’t the score that counts,’
“it’s how you play the game.”

“There may be times when we have little
differences of opinion,” I said, “‘but you may
have noticed I never argue very hard. To me
it’s more important that you’re happy—I’d
rather let you win.”

“‘T see,” she said. *‘That’s how you want to
play the game. You want it to look as if my
arguments are never any good—that you have
to let me win. Well, I think that’s deceitful and
underhanded.”’

I studied my cigarette for a minute and then
crushed it out. ““You’re quite right,’’ I said.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, ‘“‘you’re not
handing me any victory this time. I can win
this argument all by myself and you know it.
So go ahead—give me your side.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you—I
don’t have any side. You have all the facts, all
the logic—what can I do except concede?”

“It seems to me the least you could do is go
down fighting,” she said. ““You might give me
that much satisfaction.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say—as head
of the household I was a failure and not yet
forty.

“I’m going down to the drugstore,” I said;
“is there anything you want?’’ She said she
couldn’t think of a thing. I went upstairs
and got dressed and got out the car. The kids
were all on the corner lot when I went by,
looking for the pen. I stopped at the drugstore
and then went back and talked to the kids.
After that I parked down by the river for a
while and then went home. Peg was making
potato salad in the kitchen.

“Pl peel the hard-boiled eggs for you,” I
told her.

‘Fine,’ she said, ‘‘but that one
cooked—that one either.”

“You should have spoken a little sooner,” I
said.

“Never mind, I'll put them in a bowl. Did
you have a nice ride?”

“Just fair.”” | happened to glance over to the
shelf and noticed a big bunch of blackeyed
Susans there. “‘Well, where did you get the
bouquet?”

’

she said,

isn’t

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

The trouble with objectively counseling
one’s own children, Major Stevens concedes,
is that it doesn’t work—at least, it doesn’t
work the same way it does with other people’s
children. And it’s not because father pays the
bills but because emotions are involved, even
though he tries to be objective.

One time during Sara’s freshman year at the
University of Colorado, she became despond-
ent about life in general and college in par-
ticular. She wrote a long letter to her father
telling him so. Two days later she was awak-
ened at seven in the morning to answer the
telephone.

“*Hi-yuh, lover,” a male voice said.

Still sleepy, Sara answered, “Forget it, boy.”
She was in no mood for love at seven A.M. She
was about to hang up when she recogniz
her father’s voice. He proposed to drive the 7% |
miles from the Air Force Academy to Boulder,
pulling ‘““No Rancho Yetto,” and take her for
an overnight trip to the mountains. To this she
agreed, and father and daughter spent most of
Saturday and Sunday talking and walking by
an isolated mountain stream. “I don’t know
what all he told me,”’ Sara said, ‘‘but I do re-
member I fell into the icy water trying to get
across the stream—and he didn’t tell me to
change clothes.”

Mary Stevens said, “We have problems—
but no troubles. Each year we realize more
sharply that the time is drawing near when
Mike will be the only one at home with us. I
don’t mean that to sound sad—think of the -
excuses we'll have to travel when they’re all
scattered !”’

And who can say what Mike’s college ex-
penses will be in 1976?

“The kids,” she said. “They gave me the
sack of jelly beans there on the table, and
these.”’ She brushed back her hair to show me
the earrings.

“Well, flowers, candy and jewelry,” I said.
“You seem to be pretty popular.”

“The kids were loaded—they said they
found six fountain pens.’ She looked at me
expectantly.

“Yes,” I said, “that’s true. You see, I got to
thinking about what you had said about their
tramping around in the dust and weeds. So
when I got to the drugstore, they were closing
out these pens at half price and I thought
that maybe I should give the kids a sporting
chance.”

“That’s about the way I had it figured, but I |
couldn’t quite decide what prompted all the
gifts.”

“I’m as baffled as you are,” I told her.
“There’s only one possibility I can think of.
When I was paying them off I happened to be §
humming that song—‘M is for the many some-
thing or other; O is only that she’s growing |
old’—you know the way you do sometimes.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, “I catch myself
humming it all the time.” |

I felt the coffeepot and poured myself half
a cup. That’s all there was. I took a swallow |
and smacked my lips. Peg started peeling’
onions. She doesn’t especially like them in
potato salad, but I do.

“The trouble is,”’ I remarked, “‘people don’t |
always know how to express themselves—you
know—about love and happiness and things |
like that.” a

She shook her head. ‘‘The only mistake is
in expecting everyone to express themselves
in the same way. Some people send fanc
valentines, some send comic ones—that’s the}
only difference.”’ She had peeled three onion:
She lifted her apron to wipe her eyes and the
reached up and got two more onions. “Why.
don’t you go in and read your paper?” 7

“OK,” I said. “I’ve been wondering how
Annie’s going to get herself out of that sack.”

“T don’t know,” Peg said. She reached her
arm over to wipe her eyes on her sleeve.
“Somehow I think she’ll manage.”

“Come to think of it,” I said, ‘‘she’s been
in some kind of jam every Sunday for the last
fifty years. And she always manages to get out
of it some way or other.”

Peg looked up at me, smiling through her
tears. ““You’re right,”’ she said. ‘Maybe the
little red-haired tyke has a lesson for us all.”

END

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THE OLD DOG

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 51

can’t. “He'll get his death of cold sitting there
in the snow.”

Stephen was bothered.

It was then Amanda stopped suddenly, say-
ing she had twisted her knee. “‘I’ll go back and
take Barney with me. You two go on,” she
said. She knew that was what Serena had
wanted. It had been silly of Stephen to try to
include either of them in the party.

“Don’t worry. She hasn’t really hurt her
knee, or anything else. It’s just an excuse.”
Serena laughed. ‘‘She’s sloppy about the old
dog.”’

Stephen let them go, but he stopped more
than once to watch the two small dots getting
smaller and smaller on the white background
of snow, going back to the house.

The Christmas tree stood in a corner of the
drawing room. It glittered with silver balls
and tinsel chains, and the usual fairy leaning
rather crooked on top. The one expensive box
of crackers the colonel had brought from
London had been carefully arranged to go as
far as possible, and under the tree were
stacked parcels done up in gaudy paper, tied
with silver and gold and red string. There
were the family’s presents to one another and
to Mathilda, who had been with them more
than twenty years and if she had ever had any
other home did not remember it. And there,
presently, Stephen would lay his offerings.

No one was supposed to touch the parcels
once they were under the tree, until the colonel
handed them round on Christmas night.
Amanda had already crept down to take a
look at hers and Serena had been more than
once to find out whether Stephen’s offering
had been laid on the heap, because that was
the most exciting Christmas present. She
wanted to hold it and feel it and guess if it was
what she hoped it would be. A ring. She loved
her work, but she wanted to get married and
what could be better than marrying a sailor,
away so much that she could have the best of
both worlds? For a time, at any rate.

She crept down again that night after lights
out, to look. It still wasn’t there. There was
something soft and squashy from him for
Mrs. Blagdon, and what was obviously
cheroots for the colonel and a box of choco-
lates, very suitably, for Amanda. But for her,
so far, nothing. Probably, thought Serena, he
thought it too risky to put anything of real
value there under the tree. After all, there
could be a burglar. She went back to bed.

The small, square parcel she was looking for
still reposed among Stephen’s ties in the
dressing-table drawer, and it was a ring. He
could not say why he had this strange reluc-
tance to part with it and he never thought of
burglars, until the old dog howled dismally
around one A.M. and he heard footsteps on the
stairs.

As there was no handy weapon of defense in
his bedroom, he picked up a long Wazari
knife on his way through the hall. The colonel
had brought it back with him from the Fron-
tier.

The old dog had stopped howling, but
Stephen saw a chink of light under a door at
the end of the passage. He went in and collided
with Amanda, who was just coming out, the
old dog beside her.

‘““Hush, it’s only me,”’ she said urgently.
“He gets lonely and howls and then father is
angry. So I come down and take him up with
mMeC.32

“T thought he was Serena’s bodyguard.”

“He always has slept in her room and gone
everywhere with her, but now she’s turned
him out and he can’t understand why, poor
Barney. He snores, Serena says. And smells.”
She patted his head gently when she had to
say that cruel word.

“And does he?” asked Stephen, half sol-
emn, half laughing.

“Well, perhaps a little. I don’t really mind.
I can’t bear to hear him howling, or to have
them talk about how painlessly they do it
nowadays.”” Her voice shook when she said
that, and she changed the subject quickly.
“What are you doing with that knife?” she
asked uneasily.

“Preparing to attack the burglar. What do
you suppose would happen if we crept down
to the kitchen and made some tea?”

The kitchen fire still glowed red in the old-
fashioned range. There were a basket chair
and a rocking chair and a scrubbed wooden
table. Nothing modern. Nothing shiny and
white. Mathilda liked things to be the way
they had always been. There was a rag rug
and Barney lay on it. Stephen felt oddly
happy and at home, brewing tea in a strange
kitchen, and he looked at Amanda, seeing
her for the first time. She wasn’t pretty, like
Serena, and she certainly wasn’t brilliant.

She’s gentle, he thought, and kind.

And sitting there by candlelight opposite
her, he thought of things that had not struck
him before.

A day will come, he thought, when I shall
grow old, and for all I know my legs may go too.
Snoring is something that can happen to anyone ;
and heaven help me, I might even be a little
smelly. One can’t be sure. No one knows what
lies ahead for him.

In a dream the old dog yelped suddenly.
Amanda stooped and laid a comforting hand
on him. Stephen knew it was what she had
done often before when doggy demons
pounced in the darkness and he thought, J
have my demons, too, and there will often be
great need for a comforting hand to hold in the
night.

“Serena wants a golden Labrador,’’ Amanda
was saying. ‘““She’s seen a puppy. He’s awfully
sweet, but I think it would break Barney’s
heart.”

“Don’t worry. I'll think of something,”
said Stephen. What could he possibly think
of? she wondered, but she clutched at the
hope.

“Oh, Stephen—can you?”

“You leave it to me,”’ he said.

That night he dreamed a very curious
dream. Serena came to him saying, “I’m sorry,
Steve, but I’ve found someone else,”’ and with
her was a handsome young man ina good suit,
the only strange thing about him being his
long silken floppy ears and hazel golden-
Labrador eyes.

“Someone woke me up last night roaring
with laughter,” said the colonel angrily at
breakfast.

“Well, that wasn’t Barney,
Amanda said comfortably.

Stephen helped himself to sausages off the
hot plate, with the happy feeling of one who
has teetered on the brink of an abyss and got
home safe after all.

anyway,”

On Christmas Eve Mrs. Blagdon gave a
cocktail party. It had been originally intended
that Serena’s engagement to Stephen would
be announced then, but the affair seemed to
hang fire, so nothing was said about that.

TOA

GRANDMOTHER

By BARBARA ROHDE

So this is how you felt when you held me,
Small bundle on the bed, arms everywhere,
Mouth searching for the sweet warm harmony
Of love, a blot of brush-black hair.

Please teach me now those secret-mother-things
That | should know: the language of the cries,

The soft-strong hands, the midnight voice that brings
A blaze of daylight to the nightmare’s eyes.

Give me that world | left behind your door

Where paper dolls had hearts and tops could spin,
Where Alice played with Dinah on the floor,

And every looking glass would let her in.

Now | am mother, | am child. The old

Eyes see you new again, majestic, warm.

Then, mother, daughter, take my hands, behold
The blessed chain of women that we form.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

|
Serena had a new dress made of pink-cha |
pagne taffeta. Amanda had a Saxe-blue dres
that had once been Serena’s, let down.

“The mark won’t show in the lamplight,”
said Mrs. Blagdon, and thought happily that
anyway it did not matter. Not to one whe
was sixteen.

Stephen was late coming down to the party
He had had a long and complicated telephone
call to Worthing, where his mother now livec¢
in a convenient flat. He ran into Serena in the
hall.

“T was looking for you,” she told him gail
““You must come and see! The sweetest thing,
Look, that’s the dog I mean to have next.”
And then she said crossly, “‘What is there to
laugh at?”

How could she know that the plump goldep
puppy sitting in somebody’s motorcar was th
image of the young man of his preposterous
dream? She could not know and it was bes
she shouldn’t!

It wasn’t difficult to find the puppy’s owner,
since people tend to resemble the pets the
keep. It wasn’t difficult to arrange a purchase
price, for there had been a litter of eight.

When he had everything fixed, Stephen
looked for Amanda. She had been around for
a while in her Saxe-blue alteration, but now
she had disappeared. He found her in the old
nursery with Barney, who did not like com
pany either. She was sitting on the floor beside
him, stroking his large head. That is how it
would be, Stephen thought. When you wanted
her, there she would be.

“Tve fixed it,” he told her. “You needn’t
worry anymore. My mother will have him in
Worthing. She doesn’t mind about his being
old. She’s a bit old herself. They’ll keep each’
other company, and you can go along and see
him whenever you feel like it and write and
tell me how he’s getting on.”

He took the paw Barney obligingly offered
him and shook it warmly.

“One good turn deserves another,” said
Stephen.

Amanda did not know what he meant, and
her mother was calling her to help clear the
glasses, so there wasn’t time to ask; and any-
way, sheer relief always made her slightly
tearful.

Later that night Stephen finally rearranged
his presents. For Mrs. Blagdon, the Indian
scarf. For Amanda, the chocolates. And for
Serena, the fat golden-Labrador puppy which
was to be delivered early on Christmas morn-
ing in a wicker basket.

The ring he took out of its case and stood
for a little while, looking at it thoughtfully.
The stone was exactly the color of Amanda’s |
eyes. Funny he had never noticed that before.

checks and one or two other things not needed
meantime.

NEW

To Our Readers:

On March 26, 1962,

eighteen months of study, our Company announced

after more than

that it is changing the traditional pattern of
issuance of The Saturday Evening Post, Ladies’
Home Journal and The American Home. However,
ALL SUBSCRIBERS WILL OF COURSE
RECEIVE THE FULL NUMBER OF COPIES
FOR WHICH THEY SUBSCRIBED and _ the
Company will automatically extend the expiration
dates of subscriptions accordingly.

During July and August, 1962, THE
SATURDAY EVENING POST will be issued
five times during the ten-week period covering the
Independence Day through Labor Day issues.
The first such combined issue will be dated June
30-July 7. Regular weekly publication will be
resumed with the issue dated September 8 (on sale
September 4, 1962). As in previous years, we shall
combine the last two issues in December into a single
issue. Beginning in 1963 we shall also combine
the first two issues in January into a single issue.
Altogether, this means 45 issues in a normal year.

The July and August, 1962 issues of LADIES’
HOME JOURNAL will be combined into a single
Summer issue. The January and February, 1963

issues will be combined into a single Winter issue.

THE AMERICAN HOME will be issued in
anew and larger page size effective with the Summer,
1962 issue, which replaces the July and August
issues. In 1963 the January and February issues
will also be combined into a single Winter issue.

THE COMBINED ISSUES of each of these
three Curtis magazines will be bigger and better
than would have been feasible under the previous
pattern of issuance, and these changes were consid-
ered preferable to the price increases that would
otherwise have been necessary in order to meet
rising costs. The single copy price of The Saturday
Evening Post remains at 20¢, Ladies’ Home Journal
and American Home remain at 35¢ each.

The subscription prices per year will also
remain as at present, but for 45 instead of 52
issues of the Post, and for 10 instead of 12 issues
of the Journal or American Home.

However, IF YOU ORDER A SUBSCRIP-
TION (New or Renewal) BEFORE JULY 1,
1962, your subscription will be entered to
receive 52 copies in the case of The Saturday
Evening Post, 12 copies in the case of Ladies’
Home Journal or The American Home, for each
year of your subscription.

THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

ORDER NOW and SAVE MONEY

Please enter my subscription as follows:
THE SATURDAY EVENING POST

SBZissues .. . $ 5.95 12 issues
104 issues ... 10.95 LJ 24 issues
156 issues . . 15:95" 36 issues
208 issues . . 20.95 0 48 issues
Canada, add $1.00 per year; Pan Canada,

American countries, 1 yr. $8.45;
all other countries, 1 yr. $10.95.

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Address

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Pees sess es ses ee eee ee eee eee ee eee eee

THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY, Independence Square, Dept. 302, Phila. 5, Pa.

LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL

same as U.S.; Pan
American countries, 1 yr. $4.00;
all other countries, 1 yr. $5.00.

State

THE AMERICAN HOME

$23.00] 12 issues $ 3.00 O
5.50 0 24 issues 5.00 0
8.00 0 36 issues 7.00

10.50 0 48 issues 9.00

Canada and Pan American coun-
tries, add 50¢ per year; all other
countries, add $1.00 per year.

LJ] Payment enclosed
L_] Please bill me

OFFER EXPIRES JULY 1, 1962

Dh cs eed

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